


Assassin's Creed: Revelations Novelization

by MirrorandImage



Series: Assassin's Creed Novelization [6]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Ezio falling in love, F/M, Fixing Desmond since he broke in Brotherhood, Novelization, OCs as Needed - Freeform, Political Intrigue, Yusuf is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2020-06-30 11:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 206,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19852216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorandImage/pseuds/MirrorandImage
Summary: Desmond, locked away in his own mind and plugged into the Animus, continues to relive the memories of Ezio in order to piece his broken psyche back together. Rated as always for Desmond's language, Ezio's amorous adventures, and all the blood inherent with being an assassin.





	1. Those Who are Lost

_Desmond Miles._

Who?

_Your life has changed so much in so little time._

Is that me? Who am I?

_Two months ago you were pouring shots for bankers and celebrities. But now look at you._

I can't see. I can't feel. Where am I? What's going on?

_You're an Assassin; one of us, one of the good guys, isn't that nice? Men and women dedicated to protecting and preserving human life and liberty._

Yes. I am an Assassin. But... something happened. Aren't I... not an Assassin? No, I returned. Someone helped me return.

_Not like those Templars. Cold and calculating autocrats, drunk on power, obsessed with order, all that. We're doing our best to stop them._

They need to be stopped. They would take away our free will, what defines us.

 _Yeah..._ Is that a glitch? What's going on? _Doing our best..._

We are. ...Aren't we?

_But you remember all this, right? You remember the Animus, the machine we use to unravel genetic memories and relive the lives of our ancestors, right? First you were Altaïr, a stoic twelfth century Assassin from the Holy Land. Then you were Ezio Auditore, a wealthy Italian with charisma and a talent for revenge._

Yes. And then... the Bleeding Effect. Oh God, what's happened to me?

_So, what do you three have in common?_

The artifact. We've all handled it.

 _That's right. The Apple of Eden._ It's distorting again...

_That strange artifact left behind by... those people. The ones who came before._

Flashes. Altaïr, fighting the Apple being wielded against him, Ezio meeting a hologram made thousands of years prior. It's all coming back.

_You know the Apple's power, you felt it for yourself._

I did?

The soft resistance as a hidden blade enters an unprotected abdomen. But. That was one of my ancestors, right? That wasn't me. I haven't killed anyone yet.

_Oh, it's been fun, hasn't it, Desmond? But that's about to change. Your mind is fragmenting, falling to pieces. And if you don't find a way to wake up, you may lose yourself. Forever._

Memories. Ezio, Altaïr, they're all blending together. With me. But I'm...

I'm...

" _We can keep him like this for a few days, maybe a week,"_ the voice was feminine, but had the strained quality of one who had shouted songs too much in younger years.

What? Days? Week? What?

" _Call ahead,"_ the voice was male, older, and confident to the point of being cocky. " _Tell them we're on our way."_

What was going on?

" _As soon as we're clear,"_ the woman replied. " _Okay, I shut down the Animus Monitoring System to free up a lot of memory."_

Animus?

" _But even like this, it's still risky,"_ she cautioned.

" _Desmond will be fine,"_ the man replied. " _The partition worked, the Animus is stable, and his signs are good."_

 _***_ WARNING: MEMORY SYSTEMS CRITICAL***

***WARNING: ANCESTOR PARTITIONS CRITICAL***

MONITORING SYSTEMS OFFLINE

" _For now,"_ the woman replied. " _But this was built to recreate_ memories _, not simulate entire cognitive processes."_

WHITE ROOM OFFLINE

ANCESTOR SYNC OFFLINE

" _The Animus will do its part_ ," the man assured. " _And Desmond will do the rest."_

LOADING SAFE MODE

White. Pure white.

Then black. Black settling into lines and grids. Flickers of code. Memories surging forward. Juno. Rebecca. Dad. Shaun. Lucy.

Lucy. That night they almost...

"What's happening? I... I can't move. I can't..." More flickers, memories and code, code and memories. And the parts that weren't his were being ripped away. Memories of Italia, memories of Masyaf, were being yanked and pulled and ripped away.

"No!"

Desmond blinked.

And blinked again.

He was staring at sand. The rocky type of sand all along New England's coasts. His head was pounding, and a part of him felt empty. Hollow. Something was... not right. He heard wind, soft waves lapping at the coast.

But he couldn't smell anything. He couldn't _feel_ anything. He twitched a finger, watched the sand move and shift, but he couldn't feel the individual grains, couldn't smell the water he heard.

No, something was definitely not right.

He rolled over, clutching his head, trying to figure out what had happened, where he was, what was going on, anything.

Lying on his back, however, Desmond looked at his arm.

A black sleeve? That wasn't... he reached back in his memory, recalling a white hoodie he was wearing, lined in red. The black had been his T-shirt with the stylized eagle in white. But looking down at himself, it was like his colors were inverted. Black hoodie, white T-shirt. He didn't remember changing. He didn't remember even _having_ clothes like this.

Everything was backwards.

_What the hell..._

He looked up to the sky, noting the faded blue and hazy clouds that didn't look like a real sky at all. Sitting up, Desmond took in his location. An island of some sort. The sound of wind and waves, but he couldn't smell the ocean, or feel the wind. The rocky sand was dotted with low-lying shrubbery and larger, heavier rocks. Amidst the stones were large rectangular, unnatural blocks, each one with the unique sheen of the construction of Those Who Came Before and Desmond could swear he felt a chill go down his spine and his heart speeding up. The blocks towered over him, and as he looked at the bizarre location, the blocks floated in the sky on the horizon. The clouds thickened the further out he looked and Desmond just let his mind stutter to a halt, wondering what the hell was going on and where the _hell_ he was.

"Hello?" he called out.

Because really, being alone where reality seemed to be suspended was as far from ideal as he could possibly get.

Naturally, there was no response.

With a quiet sigh, Desmond surveyed his surroundings again. Down the shore, up a faint hill, the unnatural blocks of Those Who Came Before formed an almost rectangular gateway of some sort, emitting the strange blue glow that the Vaults of Those Who Came Before usually emitted.

Well, better go investigate.

Still creeped out beyond anything he'd ever experienced before, including his hallucinations of Ezio and Altaïr, Desmond stepped forward and along the shoreline, heading to that strange gateway, with caution and as much awareness as he could stretch out.

 _Shit, my Eagle_ , Desmond frowned. He couldn't activate his Eagle. Like many of his ancestors, Desmond had a small corner of his mind that was unnatural, a leftover from a union of Those Who Came Before and humans. With it, Desmond could look at the world differently, seeing things that the natural human eye could not see, like fingerprints or washed away blood. Clues that could aid him in situations he stumbled upon. He'd only had the ability briefly, but he knew from his ancestors that it was his most useful inheritance from his various lineages.

And suddenly, _he couldn't use it_.

Desmond stopped and looked around again, much more cautious having been stripped of touch, smell, and now of his Eagle. There was a familiarity about this. Something he should know about why he couldn't use all his senses, but he was still groggy on how he even got to wherever he was.

But the only way was forward.

Desmond kept going forward, and as he passed a rock, bits of light seemed to coalesce as a voice smiled, "Just walk right past me."

Desmond started, turning and looking to the young man that almost glitched into view in front of him. Blond, and with a square chin, the bright smile was not quite right and there was something in the shape that was familiar.

"Sixteen?"

"Aw," Sixteen's odd smile grew, and sarcasm seemed to drip from his voice as he stood. "They didn't tell you my name?"

Things clicked into place for Desmond. "Oh God damn it," he growled, "I'm still in the Animus?!"

"Quite a shock you've suffered out there," Sixteen replied, gesturing as he strolled about. He looked to Desmond, serious but not all there.

Well Desmond was quite done with all this. He wanted out of the Animus, out of whatever this strange place was. Being in the Animus for longer and longer left him open to the Bleeding Effect and losing his mind, so Desmond rather thought he deserved a break at the moment.

"Rebecca!" he called out. "Get me out of here."

Silence.

Sixteen shook his head. "They can't help you, Desmond. You're a broken man." The blond smiled wryly. "You're mind, it's... broken."

"Broken," Desmond repeated, looking around again. "But I feel fine." No layers of Italian or Arabic, no glimpses of things he shouldn't see. This was the most normal he'd felt in a long time.

Sixteen stepped forward and then he dispersed to light and reappeared right in front of Desmond, making him step back for personal space and shock.

"So did I!" Sixteen growled. And as Desmond fell back in surprise, Clay laughed, laden with irony.

"Hey!"

"Look at me now!" Sixteen yelled. He chuckled again and Desmond was unpleasantly reminded of how unstable Sixteen was, and how his laughs could make a demon's blood run cold. But Sixteen leaned forward, offering a hand. "I'm Clay. Clay Kaczmarek. Let's talk buddy."

Pulling up Desmond, Sixteen, Clay, started to walk up to the gate that Desmond had been heading for in the first place.

Desmond had many questions, from what had happened to Sixt-Clay, to what information Clay kept trying to leave in all those glyphs, and what memories he'd seen. Clay was a repository of knowledge from his own time in the Animus, and seeing memories in his own DNA without the machine. There was so much he was trying to share while fractured.

But the first question Desmond asked had to do with the massive blocks floating in the sky and buried in the ground around them.

"What is this place?" It wasn't like any other place in the Animus he'd been to. The white loading room, the simulations of ancient cities, this place was... different.

"It's nice, isn't it?" Clay smiled. "We're in the guts of the Animus, the original test program. No memories here, just basic physics, weather simulations." With a soft chuckle, Clay shouted sarcastically, "Hello world!"

Desmond bit back his own chuckle, remembering when he was first learning hacking and programming.

"You're lucky someone up there had the sense to plug you in here," Clay continued. "Saved your life."

Desmond stopped and turned. "Saved it from what?"

Clay gave a strange smile. "Right now, you should be sitting in a hospital ward, drooling and chewing on your tongue. For now the Animus is keeping you intact, keeping all your ancestors from collapsing into one big mess. But if you can't find a way to partition your own mind, all those personalities will smash together." Clay's voice took on a dark undertone. "And that won't be pretty."

"Partition?"

"I'm getting there," the blond grunted, "hold on."

Then he dispersed into light again, glitching forward to reappear sitting on a normal rock in front of the gate.

"There," he pointed, "that thing is your way out."

Desmond looked at the eerie blue glow, the impossible height of the gateway, and turned back to Clay with a flat glare. "You're screwing with me."

Clay glanced away with a faint smile. "Here's the problem," he said harshly, "your brain is _hash_ – too many ghosts in your head, too many voices, so how do you fix that?" He leaned forward. "You _claw_ your way back into the stored data, you find unfinished memories and you crack them open. Finish what you started – until your ancestor has nothing left to show you. Partition created. No more memories to see, no more connection needed, and the Animus can separate Desmond from Ezio and Altaïr and send you home. Back to your body."

It made sense. He kept synching with Altaïr when he wasn't in the Animus because Altaïr still had a life after killing Al Mualim. Even seeing how his next ancestor was... Desmond shuddered... conceived, couldn't have been the only thing to see. There were years between defeating Al Mualim and that encounter with Maria. There must be more. To say nothing of whatever the Apple may have imprinted onto his DNA, like it did with Ezio.

And Ezio still hadn't fathered Desmond's ancestor yet, so Ezio still had more to show.

But for all that this made sense, how did one even come up with such a wild theory? "How do you know all this?" Desmond asked. Looking to Clay and his creepy smile.

"Because it happened to me," he said plainly. "But my body, it's worm food now. So I'm stuck here." There was a bitterness layering into his normal sarcastic tone. And Desmond could only feel pity. But this wasn't the real Clay. This was the Clay that Clay had programmed. This was the executable Rebecca had stitched together from the bits and pieces of clues that he had left behind in the Animus memory core.

"A word of warning," Clay said, standing. "When you step through there, everything changes. Nothing feels... normal. But you _are_ still in control and it's up to you to find your way out."

Desmond nodded, turning back to the gateway. "Right."

"Break the cycle, Desmond."

Desmond turned, surprised to have heard the bitterness, the sarcasm, the not-quite-there tone of Clay disappear and be replaced with heavy seriousness. There was no more ironic smile, no more half chuckle, Clay's face was blank and inscrutable.

"What?"

"Break the cycle, Desmond. And when you find out how, tell me."

"What are you talking about?"

But Clay was smiling again, and his voice was half-way laughing. "If you hurry, you might make it back in time for Lucy's funeral.”

" _What_?"

"Oh," Clay said with a nonchalant shrug and half laugh. "I thought you knew." And then he disappeared in a flash of light.

Or maybe he didn't, because now Desmond was flickering, light engulfing him. "Lucy..." he moaned, images of her death flooding his mind. Collapsing, Desmond fought against the light trying to disperse him. "Oh _God_... I'm so _sorry_." The hidden blade sinking into an unresisting abdomen, the echoing voice of Juno, the flashes he had seen. "It wasn't me, it wasn't me," he muttered, "it was that voice! Juno!" The light intensified, and Desmond grimaced. "She took hold of me, she made me..."

Bits of Desmond broke off into light and Desmond shuddered, the empty feeling he'd been holding growing. He was just kidding himself. He was confused, groggy, but he remembered. He remembered everything now with far too much clarity. He remembered what he'd seen. What he'd heard. What he’d chosen.

"What am I doing?"

He was running away again. And he would _never_ run away like he did as a child again.

 _Never_.

The light faded, leaving Desmond whole and intact. The grief was still there, the sorrow, the guilt, but he wouldn't lay the blame anywhere else. Desmond had done it. He had killed Lucy. He sat up and held his face in his hands. "What have I done?"

He stayed like that for a while, sitting, huddling, thinking. He remembered. And he didn't like remembering. But if he was going to grieve, it would be on his terms. So he reflected. Lucy...

Oh Lucy... why?

Why?

It _hurt_.

Desmond shook his head.

Above him, disembodied, a phone rang.

"Seriously?" Desmond growled, frustrated at the interruption. "A _phone_?"

" _It's Shaun,_ " Rebecca said.

"Rebecca! Get me out of here!"

But she didn't hear him. A faint click of answering the phone and, " _Shaun, what's going on?_ "

" _Let me talk to him._ "

" _Dad_?!" Desmond shouted. He had _never_ expected to see or hear from his Dad again. Not after he ran away. Not after learning that the compound had been annihilated by Templars.

" _Did you..._ " Rebecca said, " _hold on, I'm putting you on speaker._ "

" _Shaun, it's William. Is everything taken care of?_ "

" _Oh, well, hello to you too,_ " Shaun replied with his usual dry sarcasm. But there was the slightest tone of anger. " _For Christ's sakes, man, have some class!_ "

" _All right, calm down,_ " William pacified.

" _Oh that's rich, yeah,_ " Shaun replied acidly. " _Lucy's dead and you want me to act like it's Easter Sunday, do you?!_ "

Desmond looked down, grief welling up again.

" _How's Desmond anyway, kipping in?_ "

" _That's enough, Shaun!_ " Rebecca yelled, her own voice betraying the hurt that Lucy's death must have inflicted.

God, his team. They'd only been together for what, a month? And already, they were hurting. Desmond wanted to help, to explain, to console, but they _couldn't_ hear him.

Shaun continued in anger. " _What if he's a Templar, Bill? Eh? What if he's been programmed?! It's_ happened before _!_ "

Desmond wondered at the story there. But he couldn't ask. What had happened? Programmed?

" _No,_ " William replied, all confidence. " _Not Desmond._ "

" _Right,_ " Shaun replied acidly. " _You_ would _say that._ "

" _Shaun..._ "

Desmond couldn't take it. He couldn't listen to conversations like this and not be a part of them. If he wasn't allowed peace to grieve, then he'd do something else constructive. Standing, Desmond turned to the gateway. So Ezio had more to show him? He might as well get on with it. With strength he didn't feel, Desmond stepped up to that blue glow and stepp _ed through._

* * *

_Claudia, my dearest sister,_

_I have been in Acre a week now, safe and in high spirits, but prepared for the worst. The men and women who have fed and sheltered me here also give me warning that the road to Masyaf is overrun by mercenaries and bandits not native to this land. What this could mean, I dread to guess._

_When I first set out from Roma ten months ago, I did so with a single purpose. To discover what our father did not. In a letter written the year before my birth he makes mention of a library hidden beneath the stones of Masyaf castle. A sanctum full of invaluable wisdom. So what will I find when I arrive there? Who will greet me? A host of eager Templars, as I fear most strongly? Or nothing but the whistling of a cold and lonely wind? Masyaf has not been home to the Assassins for almost three hundred years now. Can we still claim it for our own? Are we welcome there?_ _I am weary of this fight, Claudia. Not because I am tired, but because our struggle seems to move in one direction only. Towards chaos. Since the death of Cesare Borgia I have been plagued with the weight of this weariness. I feel as though I am missing something, but what that is, I have no idea. I have combed all of our archives that survived the attack on Monteriggioni, to no avail except for that letter. You have read parts of Altaïr's Codex, you know the regard I hold for the Mentor who took our Order and made it what it is today._

_Today I have more questions than answers. What was the reason for the death of our father and brothers? When, how, will this struggle ever end – as I fear it will not? What is there for me, for us, for anyone, in the end? What is this all for? Why was I chosen to be an Assassin? Is there a divine plan in this? What is the role of the phantom Desmond? Why am I deemed a prophet by Minerva? What prophecy am I meant to foretell? Or is the story of my life the prophecy itself? Are we little more than pawns in the old Gods' games? What is it that I am missing? This is why I have come so far. To find clarity. To find the wisdom left behind by the great Altaïr, so that I may better understand the purpose of our fight. And my place in it._

_Should anything happen to me Claudia, should my skills fail me, or my ambition lead me astray, do not seek retribution or revenge in my memory – we both know what happened to us, to me, when that desire is followed – but fight to continue the search for truth, so that all may benefit. My story is one of many thousands; my life means little in the course of the world, and the world will not suffer if it ends too soon._

It had been building for a long time.

In proof, it had started with the death of his family, with the hanging of his father and brothers that had inexorably lead him to the life that he now lived.

The loss of those three were, it seemed, merely the beginning of things that were pulled from him. There was Lorenzo de' Medici, his family's patron and friend of the people, a man who knew his father Giovanni in a way that Ezio had not and never would. There was Cristina, his first and only love; his almost-betrothed. He had lost her to another man, lost her to another life, and lost her for all eternity while a madman under the power of the Apple and laid cultural siege to Firenze. He lost _Zio_ Mario during the attack on Monteriggioni, cut down in cold blood by Cesare Borgia after twenty years of guidance, teaching, leadership, and love. Mario had been a second father to Ezio, sheltering them, affable and pragmatic and a genius at tactics. He had lost his brother-in-law, Ulderico, originally captain of Mario's guard and the single being who had kept his sister Claudia together after their exile from Firenze. He had lost his mother – twice – first to her grief and then to a long, lingering failing of her mind; she had lived to an amazing age, but she was lost in the most painful way possible.

He had lost Paola, who had given his family comfort in their worst hour. He had lost Caterina Sforza two years ago, a fiery woman of strength and conviction, the Tigress of Forlì who had lost everything she had gained over the course of her life and was a bitter, broken woman. He lost La Volpe, Gilberto, the master thief who had entered his life so mysteriously left just the same way: disappearing for several months before his stooped body was discovered in the woods near his inn.

There were, too, the losses of the people under his command. Antonello, a young and eager recruit, died when trying to rescue the Colonna brothers. Thick headed Giordano and gifted Giovanni Migliore had died fighting the Cento Occhi. Cipriano Enu and Tessa Varzi, gifted apprentices and skilled fighters, had died in a fire while investigating the Followers of Romulus. Bartolomeo d'Alviano, though not dead, was captured at Lombardy by the French on Ezio's order to retrieve an artifact; last word was that he was wounded, and his French brothers held little hope for the affable mercenary to survive prison. Even Vittoria, the first person he had ever recruited, his most determined and resolute find, had died a year ago on a mission in Rhodes.

It was, perhaps, that death, of his first recruit, that made him realize how much pain he truly carried with him.

His life was not a safe one; people died left and right, bonds were made and then just as easily broken. Ezio had images in his mind that he would never – could never – forget: watching his brothers die at the hangman's noose, watching his father try one last desperate gambit before he too fell, watching _Zio_ Mario's head explode as a bullet tore through it, seeing Claudia barely clothed and nearly raped by Borgia diehards, the sacking of Monteriggioni. There were deeds he had done that haunted him: the slaughter on the Ponte Sant'Angelo to buy time for Caterina Sforza's escape; mercilessly killing a band of brigands that had attacked he and Leonardo on the way to Venezia; the death of the Doge he had been trying to protect; the battle in Viana where he had confronted Cesare Borgia for the last time, the French invasion of Italia and the horror they brought with them.

It seemed that everywhere he looked, things only got worse, not better. Men still fought over land and territory, women were still treated as little more than walking vaginas, the lust for power seemed to possess everyone, no one was simply happy for what they had. Streets were still filled with orphans and beggars. The hope that had come with the discovery of the New World by the idiot Corombo had instead brought the lucrative business of slavery by the hand of Rodrigo Borgia; Ezio's allies in Africa told horrifying stories, and he had no more aid to send to stop it. Intellectual exercises and activities were the exception, not the norm. Even art was changing, the classical style now replaced with more emotional, evocative works, and Ezio could not abide to letting baser thoughts overtake people.

He was tired. So, so, _tired_.

After Vittoria's death, he had been desperate for wisdom. However much he was considered _Il Mentore_ , he did not feel like much of a mentor if his orders got people captured or killed; he did not feel like much of a leader if his Creed, the Assassin's Creed, held such little value to the everyday man; he did not feel _wise_ , not like the first true Mentor of the order: Altaïr ibn La-Ahad. And so he traveled to the ruined Monteriggioni, seeking to see what had survived. The villa was still in ruins, even after a decade for the tiny town to rebuild, and Ezio walked amongst the tattered books and papers, flitting through them to see what had not been picked clean by the looters. That was when he had found the letter. His eyes watered to see his father's handwriting, and they doubled in size at the thought of Altaïr keeping a secret library in Masyaf.

The very thought of having a wealth of lost knowledge, locked away for three hundred years...

Perhaps wisdom could be sought there. Perhaps the reason for all this death, all this murder, all this stagnation could be found there.

Perhaps... perhaps Ezio could finally understand what this was all for, there.

Claudia, who had seen his growing depression, encouraged him to go, and he once again left her in charge of the order as he began his pilgrimage.

There were, of course, many side tracks: bad weather, pirates, but now, ten months later, he was walking up the Orontes mountains and valleys, the land utterly alien to his eyes, and he thought he could sense something. Anticipation, perhaps, a tickling in his mind that left him wide-eyed and drinking in the mountain paths and game trails. Altaïr had walked these paths, hundreds of years ago, back and forth on missions, on his way to confront Rashid ad-Din Sinan, referred to in the Codex always as Al Mualim – the Arabic word for Mentor that had become so corrupted before Altaïr had taken the mantle. Had the great grandmaster ever taken these steps to his home with awe, did he look at the citadel in the distance, as Ezio did now, and marvel at its construction, feel humbled by its size and sense of power? What ideas did he create in those walls? What were meetings with him like? Ezio could picture a man with gravitas, wisdom, quiet power; a man who must be listened to. Was that what it was like? Were his words gospel to those around him, as they were to Ezio? Did he-

His thoughts came to a skittering halt when an arrow burst into his shoulder, the point's impact dulled by his leather shoulder guard and, as Ezio looked up, the distance it had to travel. He snapped off the invasion of his thoughts and glared at the archer, flanked by a bald man in curious armor, obviously in charge. The two were on the crest of a cliff, easily two hundred feet away and up.

The two glared at each other, Ezio from up under his hood, the bald man down his angled nose.

And then, with a smirk and a flick of the hand, an army appeared behind him, rising from the crest with the weight of approaching combat. A glance to the left and right showed another swell of men in the curious armor, Ezio eyed the crest on their leather frocks and the leaf-like texture of their metal armor.

He was surrounded.

And, as one, they attacked.

It was a fight for survival after that.

Fifty-one years old, Ezio Auditore da Firenze, _Il Mentore degli Assassini_ , was the deadliest man on earth. He had thirty years of experience fighting, quietly and noisily, in war and in peace, and he knew what his body could and could not do. It did not matter that he was chilled to the bone in the encroaching blizzard, it did not matter that he had a bad shoulder from once being shot, it did not matter that he did not have the energy of his youth; he was still a master of his own body. These men, clearly trained, clearly skilled, just _weren't_ , and with that he had a distinct edge.

He would likely die here – there were too many soldiers for Ezio to even consider otherwise – but he would make his death _hard, painful_ , and the stuff of _legends_ for these _bastardi_ who would dare to think otherwise. That smug smirk of the leader of this battalion would stagger at the losses Ezio would incur before his demise.

Ezio's eyes shrank in scope, the citadel fading from focus as he extended his hidden blades. A fitting weapon to die by, and appropriate for the location that would be his resting place. Maybe now he wouldn't be so tired...

And as the slaughter drew on, Ezio made good on his private vow. He broke necks, disarmed and impaled soldiers with their own lances, swung a deadly circle about himself. No one could get behind him because his eagle had long ago awakened, the bird in his mind having grown stronger with age and more versatile, even the slightest perception of danger had him spinning around to the surprise of his enemies and stabbing and slashing and thrusting and shoving and then spinning over the backs of the fresh corpse he made to deal with the next man who thought he could be bested.

And then he slipped.

Something happened, he wasn't sure what, his mind was too absorbed in the fight, but age eventually won out over will, and someone came in with a clean hit that broke one of his well-loved hidden blades, blood spurting from his wrist in a spray that pulled all of Ezio's attention. And beyond it was a figure in white, curiously bright in the overcast afternoon. The figure looked back, seemingly invisible to the battalion attacking him. White hood and clothes, a wide leather belt to protect the torso, a simple sword at the w-

A blow came to Ezio's head before he could take a second look, and the last thing he remembered was thinking that there was no way the figure could be holding _that_ sword, because it was the sword of...

* * *

Ezio woke up briefly, looking up to see the man in the white hood, ethereal in the pitch blackness of his cell, kneeling down and speaking, mouth moving but no sound coming out before turning to speak to... no one, and Ezio drifted off again.

An unsubtle kick to his side woke him more permanently, and Ezio jerked as the pain pulsed through his body. Rough hands hoisted him up and began dragging him, out of the lightless cell and through narrow corridors, up a well-worn series of steps and into a main room of some kind. Ezio saw he was surrounded by guards, all with their lances pointed at him, waiting for him to make one wrong move. He debated offering a cruel, knowing smile, but the relief on the stonework outside cast all thoughts from his mind, for he was being dragged across the Assassin symbol, the stylized compass in a cup, the drinking in of knowledge that the Order stood for. He looked up and out over what had obviously once been a training circle, and again the specter was there, practicing forms, and Ezio began to wonder if he wasn't going insane. His mind was feeling tickled again, his eyes widened as he marveled at the ghost he was seeing. A glance showed that no one could see it, and the older man began to wonder at the blow to his head.

It was impossible.

Simply impossible.

And yet...

And yet...

He had seen moving paintings projected by the Apple, and felt the artifact reach into his very blood and bones to show him how to do things, had felt the curious ball talk in his mind and master the bodies of swarms of men, had seen the Apple pull him up in the air for Borgia to stab him, had seen the power of the Staff manifest. If such tools of the old gods existed, if the old gods _themselves_ had truly lived at the dawn of man, then surely ghosts...?

"What's he looking at?" someone asked in Turkish. Ezio's command of the language was tenuous at best, and he needed a moment to translate the words to understand what was being said.

"Who knows? He'll be hanging in a few more minutes, does it matter?"

They dragged him around the training yard, down the slope and up another to a secondary tower. Ezio was drinking in his surroundings again, the foreign architecture and the now profound knowledge that Altaïr had lived here, trained here, lead here. What other phantoms lay here? And he would die before seeing it? Before knowing what he was seeing _now_? Before he had seen the lost wisdom in the hidden library?

… No.

_No._

He would not die – he _refused_ to die before he saw what was in that library. He finally got his feet under him, shrugging off the arms about him violently and taking a small, private amount of satisfaction that the automatic reaction was of drawing swords and lowering lances and adjusting footing in preparation for another slaughter. He offered a feral smirk before focusing on the bald man before him.

His shoulders were broad under his cape, and he raised a hand to forestall the terrified reaction of his men. A portion of the man's lip was missing from a scar that ran across his mouth, his eyes were small and vaguely Asian, and his narrowly trimmed goatee was all the hair that could be seen; his head was completely shaved. And, in his hand, was a hangman's noose.

Ezio, now walking on his own, merely walked past him, out onto a narrow outcropping of ancient, creaking wood that must had existed for centuries. A glance down saw a terrible height, but... Ezio did some quick calculations and nodded to himself. It would hurt, but... if he used the noose... yes, that would fix the problem of height...

An eagle shrieked overhead, and Ezio looked up at the bird of prey, hunting for a meal in the increasing snow, white tipped wings blending into the cold air. It swooped across his line of vision and to the right, where he once more saw the ghost, confidently walking up to the edge of the plans, gazing out over the valley, before turning to Ezio.

He nodded.

He leapt.

He disappeared.

The tickling in Ezio's mind faded in preparation for what he was to do; and he took the ghost as a good omen as he prepared himself for what was likely a gamble on long odds.

He stood perfectly still, listening to the sound of snow and the shifting of weight behind him.

"He's not even a little bit afraid..."

"He must be a demon like they say..."

"What if this doesn't kill him?"

"Quiet, fools," the shaved man said, yanking Ezio's hood off. "He is a man like any other, and he will die like any other. Don't let yourselves be scared by old stories."

"But, Captain Leandros, he is a _Suikastchi_ , we are _at_ a _Suikastchi_ stronghold..."

"Fools! All of you," the leader, Leandros, said. "Watch and see how mortal this ancient order really is." And he took the noose and looped it over Ezio's head. The master assassin forced his body not to react to the tightening noose, not react to the memories of his father and brothers as ropes were around their necks, his concentration and focus and determination centered slowly on the right moment, waiting, _waiting_ , until the eagle in his mind shrieked with the eagle in the valley, and he swung a viscous arc with his bound fists, clipping the overconfident captain's jaw with enough force to send Leandros spinning to the side. That split second was all he needed as he broke the simple twine binding his wrists (and winced as the blood from one wrist began to flow again) and grab the rope.

Unlike his father's last gambit, Ezio looped the rope over the captain's own neck and – before he could try to shrug off the hold – deliberately yanked backwards and dove over the edge of the platform. Already, two guards were darting forward to the narrow expanse, and Ezio's descent halted a good dozen feet below, the rope taught and slowly strangling Leandros.

"Get him, you fools! Kill that bastard!" he choked out while the henchmen tried to cut the rope. Ezio was helpless, swinging back and forth, and he dared not loosen one hand to remove the noose from his neck, his double fisted grip was keeping him from hanging himself, and he swung his legs every which way, trying to find the best angle to strangle the damned captain.

"He jumped to his death!" he could hear, faintly above him.

"I _told_ you they don't fear death."

"Well I do!"

At last the rope was cut, and any fear Ezio had incurred faded from his ears as he was suddenly plummeting down to the narrow outcropping below.

The wood nearly didn't hold his weight, and Ezio felt the impact pulse through his entire body. He rolled, trying to distribute the energy and came up a little too fast, stumbling slightly before he found his footing. Yanking the noose off his neck he pulled his hood up.

"Ezio! I'm going to dig your heart out with a shovel and feed it to you!"

Ezio looked up to see Leandros spitting fury at him, and Ezio simply turned away, knowing the indifference would send the captain into even more fury. Rage denied thought, and that served Ezio right down to the ground, and he let his grey clothing blend into the blizzard, disappearing in the fading light.

He waited until full dark, his eagle eager to help his eyes in the darkness of the blizzard. The winds howled every which way and cut through him; he was freezing, and he knew that he could not be able to simply shrug this off like in his youth. Shelter had to come first, and with his enhanced senses he could see no lee or cave or hovel to get away from the wind. That meant climbing.

He sighed.

The wood here was newer, more recent, signs of construction. He hoisted himself up several beams, hopping when he could and out-and-out climbing when he couldn't. His bad shoulder ached in the cold, reducing his reach even more than usual, and he struggled up the series of platforms, cliffs, and beams before he came across the brickwork of the citadel. The age of the fortress was more obvious here, pieces of the outer wall were exposed, leaving beams that could be easily climbed, and Ezio took a deep breath of cold air that burned his lungs.

An hour later he was shivering as he crested the wall and found himself on one of the battlements of the fortress. A door was immediately to his left and he kicked at it for several minutes before it gave way, and inside, out of the wind, he breathed a sigh of relief. Rubbing his arms with numb hands, he stamped his feet and tried to get warm. A hip banged into a table, and, sighing, his eagle quickly pointed out where a torch and flint were. It took him ten minutes to get it going, his fingers were so numb, but at last he lit the torch and held it above him to look around. The table that had bumped him held a scattering of imple—his weapons!

Shocked by his good fortune and eager to be armed again, Ezio snatched up his hidden blades, their normal metal gauntlets having been switched out with fur lined leather for the winter he had walked through, and even that much helped him feel warmer. Looping the release rings around his fingers, he checked his blades, one was fine, but the other sprung nothing but the sharply cut metal that dug into his bleeding wrist. Frowning, he switched arms to prevent further injuring himself.

A hidden blade on only his left hand? He wondered if he would see another ghost for that.

But none came and he let the torch warm the tiny room, returning feeling to his extremities and cocooning him from the blizzard outside. Ezio reflected on what had brought him to this point, and his depression seemed even sharper in this miserable combination of weather and animosity. He had once more committed slaughter, his fight against an army had been reckless, even foolish, and the rationale that he was a dead man anyway did not forgive him of the fact that he had once more channeled the spirit of death. He was the grim reaper, taking those that crossed his path for the smallest of insults, of reasons. The Florentine had thought his journey would be a pilgrimage, not another war against men. Who were these men anyway? Templars? Who else would fear the Assassins so, would love the irony of killing one in an Assassin stronghold? Could he ever, _ever_ , escape the destiny he seemed forced to follow? Would there ever be any rest? Or would he be doomed for the rest of his days to fight and kill and murder and politick and brutalize those who brutalized others? What was the endgame of a fight like this? How could anyone endure it?

He dozed on and off, biding his time, before the wind had died down and he risked leaving the shelter he had found for himself. He needed to find the library. He needed to find his answers. If Leandros got in his way he would die.

Another death in the long string of his life would matter but little.

Stepping out into the cold, he slowly crept his way along the high wall of the battlements. Between the full dark and the snow it was nearly impossible to see, and Ezio relied on his eagle to prevent falling over the far side of the wall to his doom, or the near side of the wall to the waiting arms of Leandros and his men. More soldiers guarded the parapet, but they were blind and Ezio's boots were silent as he crept past them, stealing throwing knives just in case, and arriving at the main citadel. He found a pulley and quickly cut the strings, letting the counterweight fall down and pull him up to a small outcropping of an overhang. Glass windows towered above him and Ezio tested the metal crossbeams before nodding, climbing up. If he could enter the citadel from above, no one would expect that, and he would have the freedom to begin his search and slowly expand downward.

The climb took two hours, and his initial estimate that the blizzard had blown out were utterly dispelled as, the higher up he climbed, the stronger the wind became. It ripped through him and numbed his body, and he realized while resting his arms that he had not eaten since before his capture – more than two days, now, and it sapped his energy even more. Pursing his lips, he asked his eagle to help him push through. He could find food when he got inside.

He finally reached the highest roof of the citadel – not at all what he had planned, but he could find no door to the inside on any of the other, lower roofs, and the windows were either glassed or too narrow to squeeze through. The one door he had found was barred from the inside, forcing him higher up. The wind was roaring in his ears, snow no longer melted on his beard but froze there, and he was numb from head to toe.

Ezio was debating what to do next when the ghost appeared again, its glow still ethereal in the darkness of the blizzard. Blinking, Ezio moved over to the specter. "Who are you?" he asked, still unable to believe his conclusions, even as the sword, that sword Ezio knew so, so well, was belted at the spirit's waist.

The ghost was leaning against an eagle statue, arm cradled against him, looking out over the impressive vista before fading away.

Ezio, too, looked out over the vista, his eagle giving him a clear, distinct view of the mountains and the gardens below.

Wait, gardens?

He remembered the Codex pages Altaïr kept; most of it was philosophical thoughts, teaching the intimacies of the Creed, observations and studies of the Apple, maps and drawings. But buried in the pages were small stories about his family, sketches of his wife, anecdotes of his sons, and an explanation of The Garden, and the purpose it served the warriors of the Order, and what his wife had made of it. Ezio had not thought much of it until arriving here, and now he realized why the gardens were so important:

They lived in a desert.

Water was sacred in this part of the world because of its scarcity, and yet it was so plentiful as to be used in a _garden_? A _frivolity_? Ezio leaned further over, a numb hand gripping the eagle to study the small wonder below him. It was true that Masyaf had a lake to draw water from, but the hike down was long and sometimes treacherous, how did they get water unless...? An underground cistern?

Yes. That had to be it. Ezio nodded, teeth chattering in the cold, and moved his sluggish body back into motion, willing it to get behind the eagle statue and begin pushing. Eventually he got it to slide forward, and the bit of roof crumbled underway, letting the statue plummet down and crash against the mosaic tile and fountain. The small stone squares crumbled away, leaving a hole into the darkness, showing the gardens lay above a hollow; an underground room of some kind, and Ezio took a Leap of Faith, trusting that his instincts – that the _ghost_ – was right, and that he would land safely.

The water was bitterly cold, the shock shuddering through his already frigid body, and for the first time Ezio considered that this was perhaps not a bright idea. He would die if his temperature dropped any further; the cold must be affecting his mind. With deep concentration he forced his body to move to the edge of the cistern and pulled himself up. His body was shivering uncontrollably, and Ezio could comprehend little outside of the cold that had reached down to his very core. His clothes were soaked through, and he perceived that he would freeze to death if he did not fix the situation soon. He had to keep moving.

Begging his eagle for more help, he forced himself to his feet and grabbed a nearby torch, putting it as close to his hands and face as he dared to try and stave off the effects he was suffering from. He yanked his hood down and stripped himself of as many layers as he could, tying them up in a bundle and dragging it behind him. It was a tradeoff, the sodden layers would freeze him, or the cold air of the citadel would. He rubbed his eyes, exhausted and out of energy, and forced himself to keep moving. He needed a fire, he needed food, or this journey would end sooner than he wanted.

Ezio staggered through the halls, not completely aware of where he was going, before a face swept into his vision. At first, he thought it was the phantom again, but the muddy face did not have the ethereal glow, and his eyes were wide in surprise. A startled sentence fell out of the man's mouth that Ezio did not understand at all.

"Where did _you_ come from?" the man tried again, this time in Turkish.

"Food," Ezio said slowly, struggling to remember the right words. "Fire."

" _Evet_ , you look like you need them. Come with me, the other miners are a little ways away. Then I have to go to shift."

Ezio remembered little after that, the impression of bread and water, the dissonant noise of voices he didn't understand, and the heavy weight of blankets that he buried himself under.

He startled awake when he perceived a hand reaching for him, and a stiff, reactionary thrust gripped the wrist and yanked it away. The older man pulled himself up to a sitting position, his entire body screaming at him for his recent exertions in a way that told him he had not yet rested enough. Glaring, he turned to the owner of the offending hand.

" _Uzgunum,_ " the dirty man from before said, and Ezio once again struggled to mentally translate the apology. "We weren't sure you were still alive."

Ezio waved it off, listening to his aged body creak and groan at his movements. "How long was I out?" he asked.

"A few hours."

Nodding, he looked for his clothes, and a different man, also filthy, offered them from where they had been laid out by the fire. The layers were warm(ish), and though Ezio's stomach reminded him fiercely that it needed food, a few stretches showed that he could still move about with (relative) ease. Satisfied he could move on to search for the library, he looked to the collection of four men. "What are you doing here?" he asked slowly.

"Working."

 **"** What kind of work?"

The men shrugged their shoulders, and Ezio's benefactor answered. "Digging mostly. It took us a year to find the chamber. And for the past three months we have been trying to break through the door."

"What door?"

" _Efendi_ , please, they would kill me."

Ezio pursed his lips, uncertain how to proceed. He wanted to find this door the men, the miners, apparently, were trying to get through; he was nearly certain it was the entrance to the great Altaïr's hidden library, and the wisdom locked there made Ezio desperate to see the inside of it. He could easily intimidate this man, bully him into showing the way, but it was obvious these men were just tools, uneducated and unaware of what they were trying to access. It would be harm to the innocent, and Ezio was aghast that he had actually considered going against the Creed to try and have his way.

Sighing, he rubbed his face and tugged at his beard, saddened that he had come to this. "Do not worry," he said, suddenly even more exhausted than he already was. "I will find it myself."

He adjusted the hilt of the sword once held by Altaïr, and he once again checked his hidden blade before moving down the low-arched halls. The Florentine could feel the weight of the citadel above him, the dim light and the inconsistent torches gave an oppressive feel, but at the same time he could still feel the odd tickling of anticipation in his mind, the sense of great things lying before him. He turned, not quite randomly, but with an instinct brought upon by his highly developed eagle and decades of experience. He arrived at a landing of a nondescript room, likely a store room of some kind, save the fact that several of the armored soldiers from before were here, spread out and manning a massive stone edifice that lay on the far side.

Still tired, still hungry, still weary, he watched them for almost ten minutes before he was confident. Silently, he found a ladder and crept down to their level and, in another ten minutes, had silently assassinated all of them.

Now at the far end of the room, he saw another miner, hammering at the edifice. The massive stone reached up some three times the height of an average man, shapes of constellations carved out of the black rock, holes littering the surface.

"You have not made much progress," he said by way of introduction, eyeing the door. The miner started, looking up with a dirty face and worn hands.

"I have not made a dent!" he responded. "This stone is harder than steel."

Ezio gave a soft smile. "I doubt you will. This door is guarding objects more valuable than all the gold in the world."

"Ah! Do you mean... gemstones?"

The door was an ancient black stone, unlike any of the other, grey blocks beside it. It was as tall as perhaps three men – large but not grandiose – and its face was covered with old constellations: the archer Sagittarius, the eagle Aquila, and others. Up near the top was the assassin symbol, modest compared to the detailed engravings of the constellations, and on either side of it was Arabic script – a language Ezio could not speak but read constantly when his idol's Codex still existed. _La shay' haqiqah, koulo shay' moumkin_ , or, "Nothing is absolute, all is permitted." Ezio was breathless to see the very core of the Creed engraved into the stone, giving the massive door weight, an imposing presence. His eyes scanned over the rest of the script. "Revere the blood of the innocent; Nothing is absolute, everything is possible; Hide in the midst of the crowds; We are the ones who have entrusted you; do not betray our trust."

Ezio would never, _could_ never, betray that trust. Though he had not been raised to be an Assassin as Altaïr had, as others in the Brotherhood had, he had come to accept the Creed on such a profound level that he could not imagine living another way. He could not imagine how any man could live without understanding the wisdom in those words. That _Templars_ wanted access to such a holy place was unfathomable. The secrets beyond this door were incalculable, how could anyone _but_ an Assassin understand it? He ran his hands over the constellations, his fingers taking in the rough texture before dipping into holes.

Frowning, Ezio looked closer at the holes. Holes existed on every constellation, where the stars would have been. They were small, perhaps a handspan across, and not very deep. What was their purpose? Were they... "There are keyholes here. Where are the keys?"

The minor shrugged. "These Templars found one beneath the Ottoman Sultan's palace. As for the others, I suppose their little book will tell them."

Ezio stiffened. "What book?"

"A journal of some kind. That ugly captain, he carries it with him wherever he goes."

Of course he would. Ezio studied the door again, reverence in his gaze, before he took a breath and put it away. He needed to get in, and to do that he needed the keys, and to do that he needed a book, and to do _that_ he needed to have a talk with the Captain Leandros. So be it. He had already terrified many of the soldiers, that would do half the work for him, and Leandros himself would be the only challenge. It was obvious from the signs of new construction outside, and now the word of the minors, that the Templars had occupied this place for over a year; the Captain likely held camp here somewhere, and Ezio resolved to find it. Nodding, he turned to the miner.

"Go home," he said. "You and your fellows. Find work with honest men."

"Oh, I would love to leave this place, but these men, they will murder me if I try."

Ezio's reply was a feral grin. "Pack your tools."

Scared by the grim look, the miner fled.

There was only one door to the nondescript storage room, and Ezio ascended the stairs and through the partially deconstructed arch. Before him stood another nondescript room, shelves long since empty; a central staircase that led somewhere; simple, fat, square columns in double rows flanked either side of the space, and stepping deeper the Florentine saw the columns supported a wrap-around landing. Was everything about this massive citadel simple in decoration? Ezio had never pictured such esoteric design for the Order, even with the massive glass windows he saw up the staircase, everything seemed to be almost _humble_ in scale. None of it compared to the Duomo in Firenze, or Il Colosseo or the Castel Sant'Angelo in Roma, or the extravagance of the Palazzo Ducale of Venezia. The space spoke of great ideas, but not of arrogance, and Ezio had never realized the difference could exist in architecture. He was humbled at the realization.

Something caught his eye and a glance to his right saw the ghost again, and his mind tickled with anticipation, hesitation, and fascination as he once more watched as the white shadow moved all about the space, going up the stairs, walking and talking, perusing shelves, gesticulating, and at last Ezio realized what he was watching: the past. The ghost, the spirit... _Altaïr_... for it _had_ to be the great _Mentore_ of old, had lived in this space, this – he glanced at the shelves – this library for so long that his very soul was imprinted in the very walls. Ezio watched in mute fascination as his idol's phantom at last settled to a shade that knelt down, staring at something before picking up the invisible thing. It shifted to a different phantom, glaring up at the stairs before lifting his arm in a gesture Ezio knew intimately well: aiming with the hidden gun he had invented. Ezio glanced up at the stairs, wondering what the ghost was looking at, and climbed the steps.

There was an ornate glass window structure, and a door that led out to the gardens that the Florentine had just ruined. Turning and arching further up the stairs, he saw more shelves, empty of knowledge, that lead to another arched window, a simple table that had more phantoms moving through life, sifting through documents, talking, reading, and – curiously – a speeding specter that leapt up and, presumably, crashed through the window. What?

It generated more questions for Ezio. He had never heard of Masyaf being haunted, could hardly believe his own eyes as he watched the phantoms live and relive and relive Altaïr's life. What was causing this? How was this possible?

Shaking his head, he went back downstairs and exited the library. He recognized where he was, now; the compass relief was embedded in the stones, and below was the training ring where Altaïr had practiced his swordsmanship; the phantom was still there, form and stance excellent as Ezio would expect of the old master. The minimal warmth he had garnered inside quickly disappeared as a brisk wind cut through him. It was still snowing, and the wind indicated the blizzard had not yet worn itself out. Snow drifted in piles against the edges of the ring, and Ezio's eagle saw the trodden steps of patrols moving about. In the distance, he could just make out a conversation, carried on the wind.

"The _Suikastchi_ must not get his hands on that book. When we reach Leandros, we will escort him and it out of the village. You stay behind and make sure we are not followed."

His eagle already awake, Ezio watched the impressive double layer of gates close with no hint of age, and he knew the way was blocked to him. He watched the patrols, anxious to get going, to follow the guard right to Leandros; but patience had long ago won out over his eagerness, and once he was familiar with the patterns, he darted up behind a cluster of five guards, disappearing as they turned and running full tilt up the rise he had been dragged up before. Spying a ladder, he climbed it and was back to start: the outer battlements of the citadel. The wind was bitterly cold, his breath came out in white puffs, and he eyed a length of rope that might be useful. He had learned years ago that citadels were built to keep people out, not in, and so he took the rope and slowly made his way around the battlements, looking over the edge from time to time, trying to find a spot that would work. The dark skies were starting to lighten – the sun had likely risen over an hour ago, the thick overcast of the storm making it hard to tell.

There was a secondary watch tower beyond, but the great chasm of the cliffs that separated them was too far for Ezio, and he ducked behind another patrol, looping the rope over his shoulder and risking a climb up to a parapet. A half hour had passed since the guard had left, Ezio didn't want too big a lead and he would have to hurry.

At last he found a spot and took a moment to simply marvel at the strategic brilliance. The citadel had only one, narrow path leading up to it; both edges of the path obstructed with rocks or sheer cliffs, the gate he was standing over were built into the massive rocks, and below was the village itself. Enemies could be spotted a mile off, and were forced by geography to come up on narrow alley of assault to defend. Whistling, Ezio tied off his rope and flung it over the edge of the parapet. It stopped about half way down, and Ezio winced. This was going to hurt.

He climbed down the rope to the last, took a deep breath, and took a controlled fall the rest of the way to the ground, he tucked into a roll immediately, then rolled again, before he pulled himself up to his feet. His back ached, as did his feet, and he knew they were hurts that would not fade away. Steeling himself, he broke out into a run, his eagle already awake and showing a faint hint of gold for him to follow.

He was now forty minutes behind, and he worried that he could make it through the village quick enough to catch up. If Leandros was already gone, he was out of luck.

Dashing at full speed down the hill, the narrow path opened up to a small watchtower. He blew past it, instead making a quick estimate and leaping off a small cliff, angling his body as he surprised himself by finding a haystack to land in. Hopping out, he once again ran at full tilt along the cliff wall, keeping the massive wooden gates of the village as his point of reference. Eagle awake, he saw a great mass of red, the Templars in their strange armor. Also, there was a flicker of gold, and Ezio knew he had made it in time.

" _Fiye apo brosta moul_!" the shaved captain shouted, the phrase gibberish in Ezio's ears. "None of you leave until the Assassin is dead. Do you understand?"

The Captain climbed into a wagon and slapped the reins viciously, leaping into a gallop despite the dim light, leaving a racket and kicked up snow trail that was obvious to follow. Ezio let the man have his lead, the heavy wagon would only slow him down, and Ezio used his skills as a master assassin to carefully slip through the guards and to the stables by the gate. He found a fresh stallion, saddled him, and bolted out, to the multiple shouts of surprise of the guards of the village, and leapt over a collapsed log, practically flying down the mountain after Leandros.

He had caught up in the span of ten minutes, riding under ancient Roman arches and down into the valley. Leandros' wagon had gained an escort.

 **"** He's behind us! There! You see him?"

The scarred man whipped his head about. Even from that distance Ezio could see the soldier's eyes widen. He turned to the escort. "What are you doing? Faster!"

And, as one, a dozen guards pulled their reins to attack a single older man on horseback. Drawing his beloved sword, forged in the citadel he had just left, Ezio kicked at the stallion and lowered his body, crouching in the stirrups and getting ready for yet another fight.

… Would the fighting ever end?

The Templars were less coordinated on horseback, and Ezio allowed the first fighter to ride up almost beside him before giving a feral slash that frightened the horse into leaping aside and then tripping over the many rocks of the mountainside. Two more tried to flank him on either side, but Ezio just yanked the reins of his mount, skidding into a snow scattering halt before wheeling to the side and jumping to another gallop, leaving the back of one of the pair exposed for another slash and eviscerating him. The other struggled to control his mount and Ezio left him to the snow, kicking forward and swinging at the legs of horses startled them out of his way.

He soon burst past the entourage and pushed his mount into another gallop. His animal was fresh and rested, while the escort had been fighting through the blizzard for an unknown amount of time. Reaching the crest of a hill, Ezio pulled up and grabbed the throwing knives he had confiscated earlier. Taking careful aim, he threw three of them, piercing horses and sending them into terrified screams, rearing and bucking until the entire escort dissolved into chaos. Satisfied, Ezio turned and kicked the flanks of his horse, dashing over a bridge and past a smattering of houses.

Deeper in the valley the blizzard was not as strong; the winds died down to the occasional gust, snow was not nearly so thick, and the paths were cleared enough that the trail of Leandros was not obvious. Ezio once more called on his eagle, looking for faint traces of gold and hoping he hadn't already missed some side trail or turnoff that the Templar captain had taken. Slowing to a more sedate canter, he looked left and right, searching, searching, until... There. It was faint, but Ezio saw the gold, and closer inspection saw wagon tracks moving at a furious pace. Nodding, Ezio kicked his horse into following the narrow trail. Satisfied for the moment, he searched the saddlebags he had hastily grabbed and found some hardened cheese and a small pack of seeds. He ate them greedily, hoping it would quell his angry stomach for the time being and pressing forward. The dim light continued to brighten, Ezio alternating between galloping and cantering in the hopes of saving his horse, and somewhere around midmorning he reached the bottom of the valley and starting going up. His back and feet were killing him from the fall from the Masyaf gates, and he rolled his back and shoulders to try and ease the aches to little avail.

Eventually, he reached an ancient Roman colonnade of some kind; arches and colu _mns holy shit this was in the Kingdom back when I was synching with Altaïr scat_ tered in a rectangular fashion from time immemorial. An open air market? A stable yard? The Florentine had no idea, but at the far end he saw a certain rickety wagon.

With another escort.

Of all the...

And Leandros turned and saw Ezio on the far side of the columns. "You again?!" his shout of indignation echoed all about the structure. "Stop him! _Stop him!_ "

His escort was only five horses strong this time, and Ezio wheeled his mount to the side, the animal surprised with the sudden assertion of control, and moved to get the columns between him and them. The riders fanned out, and Ezio pulled out another throwing knife. He needed to assess how fresh their horses were before either taking one or racing them. Two advanced and tried to catch him in a pincer movement. Ezio held his horse still before he had it leap over the dismal corpse of a column, the animal only barely clearing the cut stone. Wheeling again, he took his throwing knife and threw it at one guard, catching him in the neck before grabbing his sword and having just enough time to block a downward slash. A glance at his enemy's mount showed it was fresher, and he slashed at an open spot, killing the rider and yanking him out of the saddle before hopping onto his new mount. The other three were moving in now, one with a lance lowered and hoping to use in a once-sided jousting match.

Ezio would have none of that, however, and instead raised his hand, taking deliberate aim, and firing his pistol. The lancer's face exploded in gore, the noise startled all the horses, and the now riderless animal bucked before taking off, dragging the mutilated body with it.

"What was _that?_ " More Turkish.

"He is a _demon_! Run for your life!"

And his two adversaries disappeared. Satisfied, Ezio took control of his new mount and dashed uphill after the Templar captain.

In the span of twenty minutes he had caught up again, and Leandros whipped his wagon into a gallop – or at least a meager excuse of one, given that the poor horses had been running all morning and were exhausted. Ezio easily gained ground, and he tried to imagine where the mysterious book was, and why it would tell him where the keys to the great Altaïr's library were hidden. Who had written it? Another, age old Assassin? Altaïr himself? He joyed at the thought of there being another Codex.

It was this moment of inattention that cost him. The bald captain had said something to the guards at an old watchto _wer God just like with Altaïr, this is too freaky an_ d one of the guards tossed something. Ezio didn't realize until it was too late that it was a bomb, and he yanked his horse to the side so hard the beast's hooves slid out from under him in the snowy surface, causing them both to skid. The explosion was not large, thankfully, and the horse was too busy trying to get to its feet. Ezio had better mastery over his fear, however, and had not let go his grip on the reins. Stiffly, he got up to his feet and pulled at the poor animal, patting its nose and trying to shush it, even as he eyed the smoke and tried to gauge how much time he had. He could still hear the oddly armored Templar at the watchtower.

"Do not take your eyes off this road for a moment. Do you understand me? Nothing gets through!"

Knowing there wasn't much time left, he decided to let it lay; he would get another horse at the watch tower. As soon as he let go of the reins, the horse hopped to one side, still bucking, and landed a hard kick at Ezio's abdomen, sending the older man back to the ground and gasping for breath. Stupid, _stupid_ nag of a horse!

"The horse!"

"No rider... is he dead?"

"Eyes on the road!" Leandros shouted, his voice echoing off the mountain.

For a brief moment, Ezio laid on the snowy ground, looking up at the overcast sky and the falling snow. What had once started as a simple pilgrimage had turned into yet another battle with the Templars, this time not over land, or power, or philosophy, but over knowledge. Ezio, who had learned his most important lessons the hard way, who had learned so much from Altaïr, who treasured the education he had received from his family and mentors, found this almost as cruel as the tyranny of the Borgia. Did the Templars horde knowledge as well as power?

He would be _damned_ if he let that happen. That library was _his_ , he had _earned_ the right to drink of its depths and to understand what all of this suffering, what all this death, what all this _carnage_ was for.

Growling, he pulled himself up to a sitting position, rubbing and what was likely a horseshoe-shaped bruise, and got to his feet. Holding his side, he marched through the lingering smoke of the bomb and marched through the snow towards the watchtower.

"Leandros! There!"

The shaved head of the captain whirled around to see Ezio, bedraggled from the long ride, holding his side, moving stiffly. The vaguely Asian features split into a feral grin.

"Well, well," he said expansively. "Look what crawled out of its hole to die!" He turned to his underlings. "He's at death's door. Finish him off. Bring me his head, or throw yourselves into the canyon."

Three guards in helmets and capes cut to the small of the back advanced, drawing their weapons as Leandros disappeared behind the tower. The Florentine could not see beyond the rectangular structure, and instead focused on the latest fight he was forced to take part in. The guards were young, powerfully built and looking upon the old master assassin with arrogant expressions. They did not expect much of a fight. Ezio offered a feral grin of his own, crouching and spreading his feet.

"Get your sword, _ihtiyar,_ " one of them said. "It would be an insult otherwise."

" _Vai a farti fottere_ ," Ezio replied in Italian. The vulgarity was able to translate, and the three brash youths moved to attack. Ezio ducked under one proficient thrust and grabbed the hilt, yanking just enough to set the boy off balance; this was followed by a head-butt and a kick to the groin that made the curved sword his own, which moved smoothly into blocking a slash and angling the blade away with petulance, spinning into a tight arc and ramming his shoulder into his second opponent before impaling him. The third tried to readjust his impressions of an injured old man, but Ezio left him no time to do so, instead punching the boy in the stomach before extending his hidden blade to finish the job. Three dead at his feet, the latest in a very, _very_ long list, and Ezio stepped over them and left them to the cold.

Beyond the watchtower, now that he could look, was a small village of some kind. He was so turned around in the earlier ride that he couldn't be sure where he was. His eagle told him the Templar was in there, somewhere, and undoubtedly had told gate guards to have their swords drawn.

Sighing, he limped off the road and followed a dim trail, nearly covered with the continual snow. Did it ever _stop_ in this accursed country? Sniffling and rubbing his hands to keep warm, Ezio curled over his abdomen and traced around the edge of the settlement before spying an ancient waterwheel.

Perfect.

The snow was easily four inches deep of the road, and he left an obvious trail save the fact that the day was overcast and the goddamn never ending blizzard would likely cover up his tracks. He passed under a twisted, gnarled old tree completely devoid of leaves and began turning closer to the river. There was a wide bridge crossing the river, the wood icy and slippery as Ezio crossed it. Twice his feet slid out from under him, leaving him cursing creatively and wishing he were somewhere warm. His stomach growled at him, too, and he was more than a little peevish as he finally approached the waterwheel. The spray of the river stung at his already frigid skin and beard, and his hand went instantly numb when he grabbed the wet wood and let it pull him up to the battlements of the city wall.

This used to be so easy...

A single guard stood watch, and Ezio easily dispatched him despite his injuries and sour disposition. From his position he could see the town trended uphill through the snow, and beyond was a barbican; that was likely where the Templar was hiding himself, surrounded by guards and getting warm and fed. Ezio frowned into his beard and contemplated killing the _bastardo_ slowly. Down some more slippery steps and he was in a stable yard, the wagon he had been chasing all morning there, as were several stacks of hay and feed bags and other bits of tack. He saw a single guard making his rounds and quickly ducked into a haystack. One more murder was added to his conscience and he exited into the town proper. The village was _infested_ with men in helmets and half-capes and leather smocks with their unknown crest upon them. Ezio ducked from one crowd to the next, listening to bits of Turkish and Arabic, ever watchful of the guards and always keeping his back to them before they could recognize an assassin amongst them. He spent several hours in the village dodging from one spot to the next, careful not to draw attention, careful to always work uphill.

Up a steep hill were more avenues and crowds, some with stalls and others clutching shawls and keeping their heads down. Goats and chickens and dogs were everywhere, as was the smell of their _merda_ , and Ezio could see faint traces of gold showing he was going in the right direction.

Walking under an arched alleyway, he turned up a hill and saw the imposing iron gate of the barbican. It was nearly dark now, his abdomen was cursed with both the kick from his horse and the pangs of more hunger, but he pushed it aside and boldly straightened, drawing his sword and limping through the gate at his full height.

Atop one of the buildings, talking with an underling of some kind, was Leandros. Their eyes met, and Ezio saw surprise and, at last, a trickle of fear.

 **"** Could it be that you are every bit as deadly as the legends say?" he shouted, shoving his aide aside and stepping up to get a better look at the old man. "Or am I in charge of an army of drunks swinging sticks? Right this way, Ezio. Nowhere left to run now!"

Ezio snorted, stepping subtly to the side. Barbicans were secure, leaving usually only one gate inside. The Florentine refused to chase this dog any further. Nowhere left to run?

"Not for me," he said in his rich baritone, "and not for you." And, with a powerful swing, his indestructible sword that once belonged to Altaïr himself slashed through the gate rope like butter, the frayed end flying up as the gate came crashing down.

Now they would settle the score.

"Kill that dog! Cut him down!"

Ezio willed his body into movement and dashed into the growing shadows, hearing the footfalls of the men following him before reaching up and grabbing the sill of a window, hoisting himself up and up again before rolling onto a roof. He held still, clutching his abdomen as it raged against his sudden climb, and waited. After forty heartbeats he dared to look down and found no one. Looking out over the rooftops, he saw arquebusiers with their long-necked firearms. Technology was starting to catch up with Ezio's hidden pistol, the advanced design Altaïr had created would not be advanced for much longer – though the master assassin consoled himself that these "modern" firearms could not hold a candle to the accuracy of his own.

Relieved that he was invisible for now, he started skulking from one roof to the next. What little throwing knives he had were quickly used up, and he looted bodies as he went for more. There was one embarrassingly close call: when Ezio felt a particular stab of pain from his belly that made him stumble, catching the attention of an arquebrusier and forcing Ezio to backtrack almost ten minutes before he found a haystack to hide in.

At the edge of the buildings, the main fortress lifted up from the snow, which had thickened over the last hour. Ezio at last realized that the snow wasn't interminable, but rather that the blizzard had been following him. The idea of the encroaching wind made him nearly sick to his stomach, and he resolved to finish this as quickly as possible. Then he would get warm, eat an entire pork roast, and sleep for a week.

The main square between him and the fortress had more hay bales scattered about, and he dived into one such stack before stalking across the open space. If he was going to be noticed, it would be now.

Nobody saw him, however, and took a moment to plot out the climb before steeling himself. There wasn't much light left, but to go inside would be suicide, and so he took a deep breath and took off at a running start and darting four steps up the wall before grabbing a window sill. The climb was an hour, and if his back hated him at the beginning of the day, it _despised_ him now. His arms were shaking, his grip was numb, ice had once again built up on his beard, the wind had picked up and threatened to cut him in half, and his feet had lost all feeling, making the climb difficult. What he needed more than anything else was rest, but the circumstances prevented that.

But, then, when had he ever truly rested, since his family was lost to the rope? He was always running, from one battle to the next, one Borgia to the next, one _Templar_ to the next, and he wondered when it would ever, _ever_ , be enough.

Clearing the first rise, he shook out his arms, hating to wait but knowing it was necessary, and hid in the leeward side of the tower, away from the wind. Walking around, stamping his feet and tucking his hands deep under his arms, he gave himself as much time as he dared before climbing again. It was full dark now, well into the night. Circling around a corner, he found a pulley and, looking up with his eagle, saw that it would take him right up to the roof. What luck!

He kicked off and flew, the eagle in his mind thrilling at the sensation for the brief moment, before stepping out onto the flat roof of the tower, seeing the trap door that lead inside. He made his ways towards it, only to see it open and Leandros himself step out.

The bald Templar captain stared, wide-eyed, for several breaths before he let out a low growl.

"What does it take to kill you, eh? Why will you not die?"

Ezio sighed, cold and hungry and not at all inclined to having a shouting match. "Don't you ever stop howling?"

And then he stabbed him with the hidden blade, twisting as he did so.

The Templar grunted, looking down for a long moment, before meeting Ezio's cold gaze. "Well, the old hound still has a bite."

"The book you carry. Where is it?"

"Ah! Niccolò Polo's journal?" Leandros said, smirking as he slowly fell. A hand reflexively went towards a belt pouch. Ezio knelt down and roughly shoved his numb hands in. "This will do no good," the Templar continued, "not now. We have found one of the Masyaf keys already, and are closing in on the rest."

Looking down at the dying man, Ezio shook his head. "What is in that library is not for you. Not the Templars."

And, to Ezio's mild surprise, the man snorted. "Ah, you can have Altaïr's books, Ezio. We only want guidance. We only want directions... to the location of the Grand Temple."

… Grand Temple?

"Grand Temple?" Ezio queried. "Tell me more. Now!"

But Captain Leandros was already dead, and Ezio could only sigh. " _Requiescat in pace,"_ Ezio said, giving last rites even to a man such as this. But he allowed himself to add a bitter, _"bastardo_."

He took the journal and left, set on finding food and shelter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins.
> 
> First and foremost: thanks go to our betas: Tenshi for always checking our grammar and holding our hands when we feel especially needy. Marina for taking the butchered work of google-translate and making the Italian make sense and helping with Italian notes and customs. And, more recently, to Leona - welcome to the madness! Leona is our Muslim culture beta; despite her not knowing a lick of Assassin's Creed she had offered her expertise and listened to our rambling, unclear, and often weirdly specific questions about Islamic culture and traditions and helping us make sense of what life in the Ottoman Empire will look like when we get there. She has been and will be our crutch as we continue typing ACR, and it will be that much better when it comes out in the summer.
> 
> For the chapter itself, there isn't much to say other than "mood." More than anything else, this establishes what Ezio's depression looks like. However distracted he gets with Yusuf and the Ottoman succession and Sofia, this is always in the back of his head, and it needed to be articulated right off. It's a really bad day for him, but then all his days are bad :P Enjoy the angst.
> 
> There's also Desmond, of course. And Clay. This just establishes the island though. More on them in later chapters.
> 
> See you in the summer!


	2. City of Many Names

" _This Apple... it is a remarkable piece of work. Feel the material... hard as steel but very light._ "

" _You really want to be fooling with that thing?_ "

" _I do. I absolutely do. I've been waiting a long time to get my hands on one of these._ "

" _Okay. You're making me nervous, Bill._ "

" _Don't be. I don't think I have the right genes to properly wield it._ "

" _Aaah. But Desmond... you think he does?_ "

Desmond started, surprised to hear the conversation between Rebecca and his father. Realizing he was on his back, he swung up to a sitting position and looked around the desolate, half-made island. The black columns, so regular and unnatural to the otherwise adequate construction of the island, were in random locations: floating in the sky, sticking out of the ground at odd angles. The gate he had entered was constructed of the odd things... did that mean anything?

And... why was he back on the island? Wasn't he supposed to be digging through Ezio's old memories?

To his side, he saw Sixt—Clay, sitting on a rock and staring at him. "What the hell just happened?"

The other man shrugged. "You were snooping. Wandering outside the Desmond partition. So once the Animus located you, it pulled you back here. It's just following orders... like a failsafe program. Trying to keep your poor head intact, whether you like it or not. It's what the Animus was built to do. Well," he appended, "Not exactly, but those failsafes were added pretty quickly when they realized just what the Bleeding Effect was and what it did. Didn't fit the business model if Subjects kept going all schizophrenic on them, right?"

Desmond nodded. Slowly. "And what are you doing here, exactly?" he asked. Clay made sense, to be sure, but he was also a ghost in the machine, a program that was as crazy as its creator. He wasn't completely convinced that Clay, or his program, or his ghost, or... whatever he was, was supposed to do.

If Clay knew about Desmond's doubts, he didn't show it; he just shrugged and made a vague gesture. "Playing. Learning. Waiting." His face turned bitter. "A _lot_ of waiting..." The silence stretched out, something dark building on Clay's face before he shook it off. "I keep the Animus distracted as best I can. For you, so you can explore. Otherwise it might hunt you down like a little virus and ah... delete you."

"Well," Desmond retorted, "my guardian angel."

Clay's face became very dark again. "There's no such thing," he growled, getting up and walking away.

"Yeah I-" But Clay had disappeared. "...Thanks."

Desmond looked around, exploring the tiny island a bit more thoroughly, noting the pairs of black columns that seemed to stretch up to the sky. Mini gates, perhaps? To what? He touched the surface before being reminded that he couldn't feel anything. The dissonant sound of the waves crashed in his ears, off beat with the actual waves themselves of the island. He sat on one of the rocks, looking out at the endless stretch of water. Lucy filled his mind, bits of memory flitting through his thoughts, and he wondered if it was worth piecing his mind back together after what he'd done.

**"** _Shaun, it's me. What's happening?_ " Rebecca's voice filtered through his thoughts. Desmond straightened, closing his eyes and focusing. Could he feel the Animus? He flexed his fingers, trying to think of the sensation of sitting in the recliner, trying to see if he could feel it.

" _Are you at the airport?_ "

" _Yeah, we're chartering a jet. Are you coming?_ "

" _Yes. Yeah, I'll be there soon._ "

" _Good._ " Rebecca sounded relieved.

" _They... they buried her already._ "

Desmond's concentration died and his eyes snapped open, suddenly sick to his stomach.

Rebecca's voice matched his feelings perfectly. " _I heard._ "

" _In a little cemetery outside Rome. Nice place._ " Shaun's voice was quiet, weighty, trying to put a good spin on something terrible.

" _God, things got so fucked up so fast,_ " Rebecca said, her voice subdued and emotional at the same time.

" _... Is Desmond still out?_ "

" _Yeah,_ " Rebecca replied. _"We're seeing a lot of brain activity, but with the monitoring system shut down, we can't record anything. I have no idea what's going on in there._ "

" _Well, keep me posted, okay? I'll see you soon._ "

Desmond could not remember a moment in the short time he'd known him when Shaun actually sounded _worried_ for him, and the realization that someone as acerbic as Shaun was pulling for him, even after what he did to Lucy... He felt listless, unworthy, and he slumped to the ground, suddenly so tired. This was how Ezio had felt, trying to find the wisdom of Altaïr. The Florentine was so tired with all the death and chaos. Desmond, too, was tired. He had lived two – no, _three_ – lives now, and the death toll was staggering. Altaïr was a butcher before he straightened himself out, living through the Crusades, and Ezio lived in Renaissance Italy, where war was a matter of course, and he a skilled participant. Everybody seemed to always lose everything, and now Desmond was part of that haunted family, because Lucy was dead. Dead by his own hand. The Apple... Juno... the compulsion... the choice...

What was the answer that Ezio found? What had Altaïr's wisdom given him? Did he finally find happiness? Or did he wither away? Where did Desmond's ancestor come from?

It was his need to know that made him finally get up and go back to the gate.

* * *

After leaving the fortress, Ezio tried to find lodgings in the tiny village. With the blizzard that had left snow up to the knees in Masyaf, he did not want to even consider traveling. The first inn he found, however, was where he discovered how little he actually had. In his race around the keep, he had not realized that not only were his weapons removed but also all his money. He glared over the counter at the innkeeper as the younger man looked down his nose at him.

" _Figlio d'un cane_!" he cursed. "I have been beset by bandits and kicked by my horse! What would you have me do?"

"Find a place that can afford to take in a man who can't pay, _beyefendi,_ " the man said.

Ezio left cursing a storm and with a limp that was growing more pronounced in the coming storm. Three other establishments turned him down when seeing his stained, slightly bloody and obviously roughed up person, and he was beginning to think he would be stranded to the cold before a young couple took pity on him and offered their home.

" _Grazie, molte grazie_ ," he said, grateful for the assistance.

"It is Allah's will," the woman said, rubbing her stomach. "He wishes his children to aid the unfortunate; it would be a sin to do otherwise. It is Ramadan, after all."

For two weeks Ezio rested and recuperated in their home, entertaining the children with his atrocious singing and occasional storytelling. He helped the husband briefly with finances, and the pair marveled to learn he had once been a banker in another life. They insisted it was thanks enough, but the master assassin left with their names and quickly added an appendix to his most recent letter to his sister. Since she had become an Assassin – a misleading phrase since she had in many ways been an Assassin for longer than Ezio – they had grown very close, and now that Ezio was abroad he was once again sending weekly letters to her; as he had in his youth when he was in Venezia or San Gimignano or Milano. Unlike then, however, he said much more, was open in a way he had never been, and shared everything in his missive.

_Dear Sister,_

_My letter to you is late, and for that I am sorry, but my pilgrimage for wisdom has been beset. Masyaf is overrun by a battery of Templars, I was captured for a brief time before I escaped, in a blizzard no less. I am well now, but the escapade was harrowing. I had feared Templars at the castle, but whatever my expectations were I did not expect an entire battalion guarding those walls. The fighting was viscous, and the man in charge ugly in spirit as well as structure. He is now dead, and I am left with yet more questions._ _Their motive is clear: They desire the secrets locked away in Altaïr's library – secrets they believe will lead them to something called the Grand Temple. I have never heard of such a place, the great Altaïr did not write of it, nor did our father, nor our uncle. Whether or not such a place exists, I do know the library is real. I have seen its doors for myself. But none can enter. Not without five keys that were sent to Constantinopoli with Niccolò Polo almost 300 years ago. I had not known that Altaïr had lived long enough to meet the explorers. Or, perhaps, it was a decision by one of his sons? Some other member of the Order?_

_Ah, you should have seen the citadel, sister, it was a sight to behold. More than once I felt the presence of Altaïr's ghost, even saw it. I had not thought ghosts existed; even now I have moments where I doubt what I had seen, and yet I have no other explanation for the visions I saw. There is a presence about the place, a sense of awe and wisdom and power that, even in the midst of escape, would at times overwhelm me. The very construction is humble, there is no arrogance anywhere inside the citadel, as there often is in our Italia. I was moved to be there, but now I am off to find the keys._

_Claudia, I must find these keys. The Templars have already located one beneath Topkapı Palace, and I do not know how difficult it will be to find the others. Only time, skill and a bit of luck will tell. The Templar in charge of Masyaf had a journal of Niccolò Polo, but there is little evidence in there of what he did with the keys. I am forced to assume, for the time being, that if one key was in Constantinopoli, the others must be too, and so I set sail as soon as I reach the port._

_One last note. After I had secured Polo's journal, a couple was kind enough to take me in to recover from my ordeal at great expense. I have enclosed their names in the hopes that you can pull from the accounts some small payment for their kindness. When I arrive at Constantinopoli, I can be refitted with funds there, but you might get to this sooner than I._ _And so I am off, with a specific goal in mind and an uncertainty of how it is to be accomplished._

Ezio spent most of the sail to the hub of the Ottoman Empire on deck, seated near the bow and flipping through the journal he had liberated from the Templar captain Leandros. The other passengers generally left him to his business, and after Ezio had determined none of them had the bright red of an enemy, he left them to theirs.

One, however, always seemed to sit by him. A boy, really, with the barest hints of facial hair and thick short hair, fine clothes, and the very definition of Turkish features. He leveled a long look on the third day, and the boy offered a soft smile.

"I, too, have need to study," he said, glancing at Ezio's book, "and this is a quiet place to do so. I will not bother you."

They got along swimmingly after that.

Ezio fingered through the journal page by page, piecing together the much older forms of Italian speech and constructing a picture of what the Polo brothers – there were two, apparently – had experienced. Their entries on Masyaf were curiously vague, to be expected if they spent any time with the secret Order, but there was an understated, quiet awe in the words whenever they spoke of the Mentor. Ezio pursed his lips to see no name other than the title, and his curiosity over whether the Mentor was Altaïr or some other contemporary grated on his imagination. More detailed was their trip to Constantinopoli, the shop they ran, and the sights and sounds of the city. The son, Marco, figured prominently in several of the entries.

It was the later entries, however, that were very interesting.

" _We have done it,_ " it said, " _My son and I have at last regained the Codex that had been lost to us by the Mongols, erasing the greatest failure of my life. It is only a partial victory, however, because the book of the great Mentor is now incomplete. I both curse and praise Kublai Khan for this pyrrhic victory, but now, at least, his wisdom can now be passed to future generations._ "

Wait.

Codex? … _Codex_?

Ezio flipped back to the vague Masyaf entries, but there was nothing there. Reading forward, however, brought the missing piece.

" _We lament,_ " Polo wrote. " _Not two days after we left the gates of Masyaf, the Mongol patrol that had threatened our departure and was swept away with a gesture of the Mentor and his relic, have attacked_ us _, and we have lost the Codex. The wisdom of the Mentor has been lost to the east, and we have no means to give chase. My brother and I feel like failures; we retained the keys, but it was the_ book _that was, to us, most important. Maffeo has said, however, that the book is not, cannot be, the end all be all. Though it would have been the guidebook, the instructions for us to build a guild of our own, we cannot let its loss deter us. In this, at least, we agree. Ahead of us is at least two years' work, which will be even more demanding without the wisdom of the Codex to guide us. Even so, we have decided that, yes, we have lost the book, but in our heads and hearts we are as the Mentor, and we are going to put our freshly acquired experience and knowledge to good use._ "

" _Merda!_ "

Ezio stared at the page, marveling at what he had learned. The Polos, famous explorers, had visited Masyaf, yes, but they had become _Assassins_ , and the Mentor – presumably Altaïr from the way it was written – had given them the _Codex_ _and_ the keys for safekeeping! He couldn't even begin to describe his feelings as he realized it. And he was going to Constantinopoli, where the brothers had their trading post, where they had set up a guild of Assassins. It was like traveling to Masyaf, the history of the journey he was taking, the steps, echoed and repeated in the antechamber of time, in some kind of harmony he couldn't understand.

The excitement faded, however, as he realized that there were _other_ parts of this symphony, too, that repeated, and the depression hit him again.

* * *

He'd reached the end of the journal by the end of the voyage, Niccolò Polo talking of how he passed the Codex to one Dante Alighieri. He already had another letter to Claudia, and after talking to the captain he knew who to speak to to have it shipped right away.

He looked out, north, over the starboard side of the ship, leaning against the rail and admiring the view of the coast as they began docking. Spires lifted, almost at random, all bout the city, denoting the mosques of the Islamic religion; the architecture was unique: wood houses next to stone monuments, Roman columns interspersed with mosques, roof tiles with wood shingles instead of stone, everything was a mishmash of color and size and texture. Even Venezia, multicolored and hinted with other influences, did not have this level of multiculturalism. No one thing dominated the eye, except perhaps one enormous tower on the northern half of the city; everything else was built to such different scales nothing stood out. Nothing was cohesive, and yet there was an odd harmony. Ezio was curious to walk about the city, to wander down narrow alleys and grand pavilions (did they exist here? Everything seemed so cramped from where he watched), to see just what there was to see as he learned where Polo's trading post was.

The boy who had shared his company stood next to him, straight and looking around with the energy of youth, sextant in hand and held to his eye, measuring something along the scope.

"A magnificent sight," Ezio said, offering conversation.

"It is a work in progress," the boy corrected, lowering his instrument.

Ezio straightened, still taking in the world around him. "No city in Europa has a skyline quite like this."

The boy turned, offering a quick smirk before correcting him again. "Well," he said, "to be precise, that is Europa," he pointed north, where their natural view was, then he turned and pointed south cross the canal. "That is Asia."

Ezio smirked himself, leaning against the rail. "Ah... some borders even the Ottomans cannot move."

"Very few," the child said with some pride. An Ottoman, then, perhaps the son of an official of some kind. Ezio studied him; the clothes were fine, deeply detailed and made to fit, that suggested money. The instrument and the comment about study earlier meant the boy was a student of some kind, perhaps on his way to being a scholar. The boy himself was studying Ezio, tapping a finger on his jaw before taking a deep breath. "You are Italian by the sound of it, but your outfit is not. Have you been traveling long?"

" _Sì, da molto tempo_."

The boy blinked and frowned, and Ezio realized belatedly he had spoken in his native Italian.

"Yes," he repeated, this time in Turkish, "A very long time. I left Roma twelve months ago, looking for..." he paused, trying to find the right word, "inspiration. I almost made it to the Holy City, but the search has brought me here." The boy nodded, his eyes slightly narrowed as he absorbed the information, thinking. Ezio changed the subject. "When I was a child, my father told me stories about the fall of Costantinopoli."

The boy looked up, once again quick to correct. "You must mean the conquest of Konstantiniyee." His mind caught up with his vigor, however, and he offered a self-effacing smile of apology. "...I suppose the moral of any story matches the temper of the man telling it," he said.

Ezio knew and had trained many, _many_ , eager minds that were quick to spout out something, and he had long since learned to let it slide. He offered a conciliatory: "That we can agree on," with a smirk to show his mirth. "Both morals arrive at the same conclusion."

The official's son nodded. " _Guzel._ Konstantiniyee is a city for all kinds and creeds. Students like me or travelers such as yourself."

The docking completed and the gang plank lowered. Several sailors began unloading the ship, and the passengers went back to their quarters briefly to pick up last minute things or make a final sweep before disembarking. Ezio had little more than the clothes on his back and the book in his hands, and so he waited for a time, watching the people do their work, before moving down the plank to dry land.

"I have so much work to return to," said a voice behind him, and the master assassin turned to see the boy again, empty handed. That meant all his things were to be picked up, further confirming the thought that he was of money. "But," he said, "it is good to be home."

"Work?" Ezio said with mock incredulity. "How old are you? When I was your age, my interests were-" And, ducking between them with a polite "excuse me" was a beautiful woman; red h _air, Jesus Christ doesn't he ever get tired of this? a de_ ep green dress that made her pale skin iridescent. "-were mainly..." She was shaped perfectly, and her curls turned almost gold in the sunlight. Ezio disengaged from whatever he was doing and moved a few steps toward her. " _Salve_ ," he said in his most charming voice.

The woman glanced at his direction and smiled, but turned back to the ports man to have her needs met.

"Incredible. I am surprised you got anything done."

Ezio turned back to the boy, caught, and offered an unrepentant grin. "As was my mother," he said.

Together they began to disembark. "It was a pleasure speaking with you, _Beyefendi_. I hope you find something to hold your interest here."

"I have faith I will," Ezio replied.

Once the pair was on dry land there was a small crashing sound, and the two turned to see the beautiful redhead crouching down to pick up her various parcels. Her movements were graceful and efficient; Ezio admired what he saw briefly before realizing he should help.

The child, however, was much quicker.

"May I, _Effindim_?" Ezio blinked at the very polite, even formal tone, of the language before the boy turned and gave a small smirk to Ezio. Caught again! The Florentine could only chuckle and shake his head.

" _Grazie_ , dear boy," the redheaded woman was saying, taking the parcels he had gathered into her arms, bowing her head, and departing.

"A scholar and a gentleman," Ezio said in a grand voice. "You are full of surprises."

The boy shook his head. "Very few, my friend." A polite pause drew out, before the boy turned one last time to Ezio. " _Eksik Olmayin_!"

The master assassin simply waved, watching the child meet an escort of some kind before turning and beginning to walk down the avenues himself. His first stop would be to a bank to withdraw money and find a place to stay. He considered paying a visit to the guild here, Gaspare had visited here for almost a year back when he was a novice, and spoke highly of the place, but Ezio's work had little to do the with the guild proper. It was a personal journey, and he did not want to involve them with his quest. After the bank and lodgings, he needed to start asking around about Niccolò Polo's trading house. He doubted the location was still a trading post, and it was, frankly, over two hundred years ago that it existed. A library, then, would be his first stop. He smirked at the thought, wondering if he would meet that well-off boy again. That would make him happy.

He was about to ask a herald for directions when a hand grabbed his shoulder. Surprised his eagle didn't warn him, he turned quickly.

Before him was a man in his forties, a few inches shorter than Ezio, with a narrow face and long nose. A scar was on one cheek, a thick mess of oily hair tumbled over a sash tied about his forehead like a headband, and his clothes were mostly white accented with light blue or leather; a sword at his belt and two bracers on his arms, a mercenary of some kind?

Then he saw the white cowl, and he understood.

The man gave a great smile, eyes wide and almost childlike as the stared at Ezio before he burst into speech.

" _Hoshgeldin Kardeshim_!" he said in an expansive voice. "Unless the legend is a lie, you are the man I long to meet. Renowned Master and Mentor, Ezio Audi..." and at last his prepared speech faltered. "Auditero de... la la la!" he finished brightly.

Ezio was offended. "Excuse me?"

"Forgive me," the man said with a wry grin. "I have a hard time remembering that Italian gibberish."

Ezio pressed his lips, thoroughly irritated. "Italian _gibberish_?" he growled. "Let me tell you something about _Turkish, amico;_ it is little more than an unfavorable mix of Russian and Arabic; your vowels are out of the back of your throat and your h's sound like coughs, you have entirely too many letters in your words and you don't have the cadence of the French, Spanish, _or_ Italian, nor the rhythm of German. I am Ezio _Auditore –_ Au-di-to-re – _da Firenze_ – the city where I was born."

The man's eyes actually brightened. "Ah yes! Now I know how to parse all those syllables!" The man smiled broadly, even after Ezio had gone out of his way to insult the language they were currently speaking. His affability made it impossible for the Florentine to remain irritated, and he even found himself smirking at the other man's enthusiasm. "So then," he was continuing, "by your custom, I would be... Yusuf Tazim da Istanbul!" He punctuated his name with a grand gesture to indicate the city. "I like that," he said decisively.

Ezio gazed at the other man a moment, the information sinking in slowly. "Istanbul? Yet another name for this city?" Byzantium of old, Constantinopoli, Konstantiniyee, now _Istanbul_? How many names did a city need?

" _Evet_ , it's a local favorite," Yusuf said, nodding before a mischievous grin split his beard. "Come, ' _Usta_ da Firenze'. I will show you around."

"I was not aware that this was a welcoming party," Ezio said slowly.

"Eh, not officially. Your sister had sent word last year that you were on a pilgrimage, and that Allah only knew where you would pop up if things went south. I decided that if you were ever in the vicinity I would welcome you personally. I have, as I said, been waiting to meet you. Anyway, welcome to the Galata district! For centuries it has been a home to orphans from Europe and Asia alike. You won't find more diversity anywhere else in the city. And for that reason, _Suikastchi –_ Assassins _–_ make it their home. Your timing is excellent, it's the last day of Ramazan Bayrami; everyone is in their best clothes and celebrating the end of Ramadan. The city is throwing a party – and I say it's for your arrival!"

And with that, Yusuf made another grand gesture and began walking down a main avenue, motioning for the master assassin to follow.

The city was dense, more so than even Roma, buildings were built almost on top of each other; wall to wall and roof to roof. Ezio could already trace several different routes to ascend and descend the heights. The many hills made for multiple levels of housing, stairs were everywhere, palm trees were visible occasionally, and the streets were chalk full of stands: spices, fruits, weavings, cloth, fish, carpets, breads, fishhooks, everything the mind could imagine. The crowds, too, were just as unique as the city's skyline: Greek sandals were interspersed with tall hats and full-body smocks, turbans and _hijab_ covered almost everyone, bare chests of laborers were side by side with women who were utterly covered from head to toe. Unlike Italia's clean-shaven look, faces were lined and beards were thick, hair was very short and everything seemed to contradict each other. Ezio saw Greeks, Turks, Arabs, Italians, and even people from the far flung locations of Cathay and Africa. But, while skins were mostly some varying shade of white or brown, the clothes were a virtual rainbow of color: aquamarines, bright greens, fuchsias, yellows; textures ranged from roughly made wool to fine-spun silk, embroidery was immaculate even on middling classes, leather was well made, and even straw sandals were unlike what Ezio was used to seeing. Doublets were almost nonexistent, slacks were rare, and boots were nowhere to be seen. Even the Italian dresses were few and far between.

One cemetery they passed was filled with people, and by it stands selling flowers and water to decorate the graves beyond, prayer books for sale to pray. Children were running about wishing everyone a happy holiday, and many gave them sweets.

And that was just what he saw.

The Turkish was interspersed with other languages, some Ezio recognized, some he didn't, and echoing from somewhere was the curious notes of music, a chorus of voices raised in some kind of song and he marveled as dozens of people, apparently with no prompting, washed themselves, pulled out small carpets and knelt down – all facing southeast – and bowed. Ezio realized belatedly they were praying, and he frowned. Even after traveling through the Holy Land, he was not used to seeing entire communities stop what they were doing, clean parts of their bodies, and bow down and pray for as long as ten minutes.

Once they were further from the canal, other scents assaulted his nose as well, most of it familiar or nuanced, but an odd, sweet smell also permeated the air, heavy and tantalizing and utterly foreign to the Florentine.

Ezio was nearly overloaded with all the sights and sounds and scents, drinking in everything and trying to acclimate even slightly to the sheer alien culture he was now immersed in. Yusuf gave him the time, smiling slightly through his beard as Ezio spied some particularly foreign sight or sound. After perhaps an hour of moving about the streets, the Turk spoke again.

"The Brotherhood is always eager to meet the man who put the Borgias out of pasture."

Ezio had never heard of his exploits described _quite_ that way, and the cheery tone made him turn to his interminably affable companion.

"Does everyone in the city know I'm here already?" He winced at the very thought.

Yusuf offered a wry grin. "Well, your holy land tussle with the Templars did not go unnoticed."

Ezio sighed heavily, sad that things had turned so dark so quickly. "... When I first set out," he said, "violence was so far from my mind. I sought wisdom: the contents of Altaïr's library."

Yusuf giggled, a hearty and embarrassingly noisy giggle that was open for the world to listen to. "Not realizing it has been sealed for three centuries?"

… Was everything a joke to him?

Ezio snorted. "No, I assumed as much. But I never expected to find Templars guarding it."

"Very troubling, no?" Yusuf countered, his voice still smiling. Something passed over his face, however, and he continued. "Five years ago, Templar influence here was minimal. A small faction with dreams of restoring the Byzantine throne. But after the Little Judgment, they're growing in number, day by day."

" 'Little Judgment'?" Ezio asked.

" _Evet_ , that's what we call the earthquake from two years ago. The earth broke apart, and so did the city. We all thought it was the end of days, the judgment, but we bounced back, so I guess the judgment was only 'little.'" Yusuf smiled broadly. "Anyway, more than just the people were hit with that. We lost over half our forces that day and the following weeks, the Byzantines launched an attack almost as soon as the ground stopped shaking and between all the looting and pillaging and mourning nobody noticed the fighting on the streets and in the tunnels, _and_ it was around that time that bandit Shakulu started his rebellion, _and_ it was when Selim and Ahmet started to openly squabble over Bayezid. With him on his way out, the Byzantines may try something dramatic."

Ezio frowned. "If you were having such trouble for the last two years, why did you not send word for help?"

Yusuf shook his head. "You've more than helped us, _Usta_ , you had all those Venetians meet with us when the War was ending, and all that advice you gave all the _Usta_ across the guilds was invaluable. Our losses were almost completely recovered after only two months, we made out like Shakhulu with our luck in recruiting. It's an amazing thing when people are driven to our cause, no? The training is going swimmingly. Our larger concern is Bayezid as he starts to die off."

"Is there no heir to the Ottoman throne?"

"Not just one - two angry sons: Selim and Ahmet, remember? It's a familiar pattern with these royals. When the Sultan coughs-" Yusuf gave a large, over-exaggerated demonstration, "-the Princes draw their swords." He was still smiling now, but it was a little darker, slightly ironic.

"Between the Templars and the Ottomans, you must stay busy."

Yusuf laughed again, slapping the master assassin's shoulder. "Ezio, I barely have time to polish my blade!"

And all at once Ezio's eagle shrieked in his ear and he stopped dead in his tracks, making Yusuf turn in mild confusion, grin still on his face, and that was likely what saved them as there was the sharp crack of an arquebus and the tiny explosion of stones at their feet to indicate the bullet's impact. In one smooth motion, Yusuf spun on one foot to better face the source of the shot, Ezio already spying the culprit and reaching for a throwing knife, when the Turk pulled out his own knife – twice the size of any of Ezio's – and flung it in one fluid flick of his wrist; the blade spun end over end in a beautiful arc before impaling itself on the shooter. The red garb was stained with a red of a different color as the man fell, but there was no time to watch the descent as three more men dressed in their embroidered red – this time with the white smocks that had the curious crest Ezio had seen in Masyaf – ran up to them with short swords and maces drawn.

"More Byzantines," Yusuf said by way of introduction, a bright grin on his face as he drew his slightly curved blade and Ezio drew his sword of Altaïr's own making.

Ezio's response to the attack was savagery, he easily blocked the thrust of one guard and drove an elbow to the man's unprotected jaw, sending the opponent spinning and giving Ezio access to his back, which he promptly impaled with his sword. Yanking it out brought a sweeping gesture, strengthened with centrifugal force that went right into the neck of the second opponent. He twisted the blade viciously, blood spurting everywhere, and saw the third was in tight combat with Yusuf, who quickly dealt with him. He looked at the two other bodies and offered an incredulous grin.

"Save some for me, eh?"

Ezio glared at him.

Shrugging, Yusuf cleaned off his blade and sheathed it. "Incredible," he said instead, "A master at work! I must remember that move with the spin. How did you manage it? Usually exposing your back to an opponent is tantamount to suicide."

People were already shrieking at the carnage, running this way and that, shouting for guards. But through the throngs a new wave of men in half-capes and white and red smocks were advancing.

"More Templars," Yusuf said, a grin still on his face.

Ezio took a menacing step forward, changing the grip on his sword and extending his hidden blade, but Yusuf grabbed his shoulder for a second time. "No, no," he said quickly, the grin now dark and menacing. "Watch."

And, bursting from an alley, men in green silk, swords drawn, heads capped with orange cloth, appeared to meet the Templars. "Byzantium is dead," one of them growled, "as are you!"

All at once they disappeared into the back alleys.

"The whole city wakens to welcome you, Ezio!" Yusuf said brightly. "First the regents," he gestured to himself, "now the rats!" he pointed to the retreating Byzantines. "Still, let's leave before more of them appear."

The pair quickly powered up a long series of steps to another level of the city, turning left and right seemingly at random to Ezio's eyes, but then he did not know the city as the affable Yusuf did. After perhaps twenty minutes, the Florentine offered a questioning look, and Yusuf gladly explained. "Ottoman soldiers have a special loathing for these Byzantine thugs. Even after so many decades they have a very good memory of how the old powers treated them, and they take artful pleasure in taking the Byzantines and making them feel every inch of it. That gives us some breathing room."

"How much?"

"Eh, just a little," Yusuf said, still bright. "They'll still kill you if you look at them wrong, but they _will_ feel bad about it later."

"... Touching." It appeared that Constantinopoli was a complicated as it was dense.

"It's not so bad really," the Turkish master assassin said quickly, sensing Ezio's displeasure. "For the first time in many decades, we _Suikastchi_ have a strong presence here. It wasn't always that way. Under the Byzantine Emperor, the _Suikastchi_ were hunted down and killed on the spot. My old _usta_ , Ishak _Pasha_ , would tell horror stories about what would happen to us if _suikastchi_ were caught."

"Altaïr wrote once of his trip to this city," Ezio offered, "It was in the middle of the Fourth Crusade, and it did not end well."

"It _never_ ended well while _Suikastchi_ were here. Byzantines were very closely associated with Templars, and occasionally Templars themselves. We all breathed a tentative sigh of relief when the Ottomans came. The _sultan_ hasn't made a decision one way or the other about us, and for now we like that just fine. If we don't bother Bayezid as he squabbles with Selim, then he won't bother us as we try to make the world a better place."

"Selim, did you not say he was one of Bayezid's sons?"

"Ah, this will take a while," Yusuf said. The two men stopped at a stand for some food before getting moving again through the thick, diverse crowds. "There are three generations I need to tell you about: there is Bayezid, the current _sultan;_ there are his sons, Selim and Ahmet; and there is Suleiman, Selim's son. He was how this conflict started. See, when a _shezadem_ like Suleiman reaches a certain age, he's given a province to rule over. Since there are so many _shezadem_ people think that the closer the province is, the more favored he is by the _sultan;_ The first son back becomes the next _sultan_ around here. Suleiman was – at first – given Bolu. I don't know how well you know the area, but to suffice to say it is very close. Ahmet, Suleiman's uncle and Selim's brother, raised a big stink over the decision, and so Bayezid gave Suleiman Kefe instead. Are you with me so far?"

" _Si_."

"Well, when Selim heard his son had been slighted by his brother, and that his father was involved, he _might_ have gotten a little mad. Selim went to his father and demanded that he be given the province of Rumeli, which is much closer to Istanbul that his original province. Lots of politicking later, Bayezid gave in to Selim's demands, but not in the way anyone expected. Selim _did_ , technically, get Rumeli, but a section of it that was much, _much_ further away from here. Selim stayed in Istanbul – I guess in protest – and that was when the fighting started."

"And are they still in this city?"

"No, they're both out fighting somewhere, and Ahmet is off with Ali _Pasha_ to try and deal with Shakulu, but we'll see just how successful that is, given that information I have is that _Shezade_ Ahmet is trying to get the Janissaries on his side."

"Janissaries?"

"Oh, this will take a _very_ long while to explain," Yusuf said brightly, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "But that will come later. We are almost there."

Looking up, Ezio saw that they were under the massive tower that had so dominated the north coast of the city. Beggars lined the tower in thick clusters, hands out and pleading in multiple languages, Yusuf waved to them cheerily as they walked around the circumference of the structure and west, following the city wall mostly as the road slowly narrowed. Yusuf took a sharp right down a narrow street and stopped at an otherwise nondescript building.

Ezio glanced around. A pair of palm trees rose up by some lattice work against the city wall, reaching what little sunlight could shine in this shadowed corner. Prayer rugs were scattered about the cobblestones, clearly left by someone in a rush. A quick look back showed the busy street through an iron fence, and the door Yusuf stood by was hidden by ornamental topiaries that were overgrown. Ezio's eyes were already following a line of easy climbing routes up an attached spire that, this high up on the hills of Constantinopoli would provide a magnificent view of the city, surpassed only by the massive tower they had walked by before.

Hidden in plain sight.

As an Assassin should be.

Ezio couldn't hold back the smile, and Yusuf beamed even brighter.

The door was locked, and only an assassin's blade could reach through the narrow slit to manipulate the tumblers. The derelict building appeared to be a mosque, or at least the interior was similar to other mosques Ezio had seen in his travels through the Holy Land. To the right was a rickety door that lead down to the cisterns. Yusuf lit a handy torch that was just inside the door, which was more reinforced than the rickety appearance suggested, making for a good defense if things ever went sour.

"Hiding in a derelict mosque?" Ezio observed. "Very clever."

Yusuf shrugged. "This has been the _Suikastchi_ base for a long time. Dating back even before Ishak _Pasha_ 's time. I don't know when it was created, but it is very well hidden." Together, they went down a set of stone stairs set under a low arched ceiling until they reached the cistern below. Yusuf let out another chuckle. "Would you believe most people don't know about these cisterns under the city? Many just go fishing for their dinner in their basements and never question it."

Ezio chuckled as well. "But their ignorance leaves you with an advantage."

Yusuf nodded, smiling. "Would that every home had a door down to the cisterns, then life would be even more advantageous."

The cisterns themselves were a veritable maze of maintenance tunnels, but there was a look of frequent use about them, indicating the Assassin's presence.

"We have a man in the bureaucratic administration that lets us know when actual maintenance workers are coming down for inspections," Yusuf continued. "It makes for ease in hiding. We head out to our dens for a few days and keep a _Suikastchi_ down here just in case."

"Dens?"

" _Evet_ , Istanbul is far too large a city for just one den to work. We have the whole of the Halich running through this city, and so we need dens to keep hold of our presence."

"How many dens do you have?"

"Nine. Ten if you include this one. And that's inside the Constantinian wall."

A massive operation. Even in Roma, a large city in its own right, Ezio didn't have enough assassins to cover that much as he had started from scratch. Eventually the Borgia towers filled the need, but not to such an extent. Ezio was impressed. To manage so many Assassins must be an accomplishment.

But there were still scars of the earthquake everywhere one turned. Solid walls now bore massive cracks. Pillars and columns were collapsed or broken. Tunnels were blocked off and even in the firelight were the stains of blood.

Ezio saw a bony hand under a pile of rubble and turned to Yusuf. "You say you lost half your _assassini_?"

" _Evet_ ," Yusuf replied quietly, clearly _not_ looking at that bony hand. "I'd estimate closer to two thirds, but it's hard to be sure."

Which meant that two-thirds of Yusuf's numbers were mere novices. Ezio frowned into his beard, resolving that his next letter to Claudia would ask for help.

At last they came to a wooden bridge over one of the largest cisterns Ezio had ever seen, the columns no longer in rubble on the ground, but supported with a framework of wood for repair. But there were no masons about.

After the wooden bridge was a set of stone steps up to a vast cavernous antechamber. The ceiling overhead was made of the familiar orthogonal arched ceilings so common to hold up all the weight. Grating above providing light from the streets, and hanging from the beams above were rich red and gold flags of the Assassins, much like Ezio had adorning the warehouse back in Isola Tiberina and flowed in a gentle breeze. In the antechamber, to prevent the cold from all the water of the cistern, rugs and wall-hangings were everywhere. The carpets were large, overlapped, and had so many different patterns and weaves it was a clashing sight. The ceiling had fabric draped down at random intervals, both to block the wind and keep the fire's warmth contained. Small gathering areas were clearly marked with cushions scattered about the floor and Ezio, now fifty, didn't relish the idea of sitting on the floor, even on cushions, for extended periods of time at his age.

There were padded benches, short round stools of an odd design. In one corner cushions were laid out on the floor for children who were listening to a woman at the chalkboard talking about Arabic writing. They were finishing up, each child bringing a slate to her and then putting their cushions away in a small cart. In another corner was a large desk strewn with maps, a woman sitting by it and studying by candlelight. All around the rooms and tunnels was a pervasive smell of incense that Ezio, who had only ever rarely come across it, couldn't quite stand.

At a table, four Assassins sat. Each man looked up, and by their age and certain patterns of their clothes, Ezio saw that they were journeyman. These had survived the Little Judgment then.

" _Usta_ da Firenze, say hello to your extended family," Yusuf said in his perpetual cheery tone.

Ezio looked at them, understood that they were survivors who had lost as much as he had over his life, and dipped his head, placing a fist over his heart. " _Salute a voi, Assassini_ ," he said respectfully, his voice conveying what he couldn't say. He switched back to Turkish. "It is an honor to find such fast friends so far from home."

Yusuf chuckled. "You see, brothers? Our _usta_ is not afraid to weep openly in front of his pupils."

Ezio dipped his head again, and fell back to the bravado men always did after getting emotional. "Do not worry. I will not make a habit out of it."

They all shared a small laugh, and Yusuf's smile finally disappeared. He looked firmly down to the journeymen. "Ezio and I were ambushed on our way here. I'd like some of you to do a sweep of the area. Wake some of our night shift. I don't like that Byzantines made it into Galata."

The journeymen were caught off guard, staring.

"Immediately," Yusuf repeated. The young men quickly tripped over each other to get going. Ezio was spying a comfortable looking chair by the fire and was eyeing it when Yusuf turned to him. "And you, Ezio. Your weapons and armor are in a pitiful state," he said softly, his good humor underlaid with empathy. "Maybe you can find some money and repair what you can. There is a blacksmith nearby. He's a friend."

"Good idea." Then, Ezio raised a brow. "Find some money? Do you not have a bank you trust?"

Yusuf chuckled with a touch of shame. "What do you think we are, wealthy Italians? We can get enough money through thieving to get food and armor, cover the day to day expenses. That's not enough for a bank."

Ezio stood firm and _glared_.

"But what do we need a banker for?" Yusuf replied, still smiling, though he was tenser. "Another official to bribe? We're making do as is."

Ezio's glare intensified and he raised a brow.

"But-"

"I will get you a proper banker," Ezio said with finality.

"... Of course, _Usta_ da Firenze."

Yusuf spent the rest of the day giving Ezio a proper tour of the headquarters, showing off the expansive libraries, where the Assassins roomed, and the several small chambers used for teaching. Many of the children Ezio had seen earlier were children of Assassins that were now orphans after the earthquake, and Yusuf had taken them in. There was a doctor, Mazhar, who took one look at the state of Ezio and insisted on a check-up.

" _Usta_ ," Mazhar stated firmly, "you look like you've been fighting side by side with Muhammad himself, peace be upon him."

Mazhar was impeccably polite, always using the proper Turkish instead of the more casual vocabulary, and carried himself with a stiff formality as a result. He had a tiny room where he tended his patients that was overflowing with books on different medicines, techniques, some copies in different languages, and a shelf bowing under the weight of scrolls of patient records, where Ezio got a fresh sheet of parchment devoted to himself.

"You do not have full usage of your shoulder," Mazhar said, carefully examining the scar tissue of the bullet wound that had almost killed him over a decade ago.

"I am aware," Ezio replied. "I do exercises to keep the mobility I have."

Mazhar noted it all, making a thorough record that was then rolled and sealed with wax and added to the massive pile. "See me in the morning. I might have some other exercises for you."

Ezio doubted it would be better than his own routine, but he agreed regardless.

The next major introduction was to Azize, a woman Yusuf brightly called the mind of the Order. She was effectively in charge of the library, the finances, and anything ever placed on parchment. A devout Muslim, she was also a local _ustadhzah_ , a teacher of the faith to children and so well versed in the Qur’an and the Hadith – the prophetic traditions, that Yusuf called her the Order's personal Sheikh. "But don't tell the men of the city that, few indeed would like her view of the Qur’an. They don't like truth getting in the way of their subjugation of women, and so they politely ignore her when she outdoes them in knowledge of Muhammed, peace be upon him."

That night, Yusuf offered a feast of welcome, with any Assassins in the den coming to join in the merriment. The children running about underfoot, the novices were all wide eyed as Yusuf, Ezio, and the more senior Assassins shared stories. Many were eager to hear Ezio's tales of taking down the Borgia, which he only offered after everyone else shared tales of their own.

Listening to all the history and stories, Ezio got a better understanding of Constantinopoli and how Assassins worked within the city. Already, he was making lists in the back of his head, just as he had perpetually in Roma when he had had to build everything from scratch. He was going to make some suggestions to Yusuf, but in the morning.

For now he wanted rest after such a long journey.

* * *

The following day, Ezio sat down with Yusuf for the list of suggestions he had. At first Yusuf brushed them all aside, explaining they didn't have the money to get a mason to repair the damage, or that the sultan was too busy with the war to send down his own repair crews. All suggestions for reorganization and delegation were also pushed aside.

"I'm in charge, _Usta_ da Firenze," Yusuf explained. "It falls to me."

Ezio tried not to bang his head against the nearest wall.

It wasn't that Yusuf was incompetent. Far from it. After the earthquake, the amount of work Yusuf had had to do was enormous and the fact that the Brotherhood was as strong as it was, spoke well of his efforts and diligence. But now he wasn't struggling to find out what his forces were, he wasn't in a place where he needed keep living hand to mouth. He could start to budget, prepare, and plan for the future. But the only way Yusuf knew how to run things was "emergency mode". This didn't give him time to worry about plans for the future, it left him going from moment to moment. And his damnable pride wouldn't let him delegate. He felt that as leader, it was all his responsibility, all of it. And while responsibility _did_ end with him, he could trust others to do the work. He _should_ trust others to do the work.

So Ezio avoided ramming his head at the wall.

That afternoon, Ezio sought fresh air to get away from Yusuf. His friendly demeanor belying his frustrating stubborn streak.

Yusuf, however, wouldn't let Ezio go alone.

"Take Dogan with you, _Usta,_ " he insisted. "It is a massive city and you aren't familiar with it yet. Also, while your Turkish is passable, you don't know any Greek. Dogan can translate if needs be."

Ezio considered this and nodded. An extra blade would be good, and help with the languages, as much as Ezio despised admitting it, would be a necessary.

He left the derelict mosque, Dogan by his side and took to wandering the streets. Dogan was taller than Yusuf, a touch wider, and from what Ezio had observed the prior night, both the strong silent type, and the one Yusuf used as his second-in-command.

Ezio walked silently along the streets, letting the flow of people take him anywhere. The many languages, so many foreign to him, became white noise as he unwound from seeing what was before him. Yusuf was a good assassin, a decent leader, but he needed help desperately and Ezio couldn't just let that slide. His decade of teaching in Roma left him already making lists in the back of his mind. Finally, he came to a stop overlooking the Halich and let out a sigh.

" _Usta_ ," Dogan said softly, his voice a deep rumble. "In the name of Allah, we need help. I've asked _Usta_ Yusuf many times to ask for aid, but he says we are doing well."

"You are not."

" _Evet, Usta._ "

Dogan said nothing more, merely staying by Ezio's side, looking to the crowds behind them.

Ezio couldn't quite hold back a grin.

"Then we'd best get ourselves a banker."

Dogan first took them to a small stand for food before showing Ezio to the nearest bank to the hideout. Inside Ezio puffed himself up and looked down his nose, demanding to know where the manager was. With Dogan's intimidating size behind him it didn't take long for a puffed up official to arrive to demand what was going on.

"This city is a confusing mess," Ezio snorted with a heavy Venetian accent. "Where the hell is one to find a decent bank like the Medici?"

The official, of course, took offense, and explained that he had regular dealings with the Medici and of _course_ he was just as trustworthy.

"Good," Ezio said, flicking imaginary dust off his sleeves. "Then you've heard of me, heir of the Auditore bank?" It was the password. If this official truly knew the Medici bank and had dealings, then he'd know the correct response and send him to someone who knew Assassin's accounts.

The official looked like the wind was knocked out of him. His dark skin paled, and he put a hand on his desk to steady himself. "The s-s-sun set on the Auditore," he stuttered, "When the B-B-Borgia raped Firenze."

Ezio let his posture relax as the official grabbed a clerk by the scruff of the neck and all but threw him out the door to get a man named Fehim. Within an hour, Ezio and Dogan were in a quiet, private back office with Fehim. As Ezio had expected, there was no account for the Constantinopoli branch, or if there was one, it was in a different bank and the knowledge died with the previous Mentor. Something to consider.

First Ezio took money from the emergency fund he and Matteo had set in Roma, and discussed the secret accounting necessary for when Ezio, Yusuf, or other assassins brought in money. Dogan stayed silent, but his eyes gleamed with curiosity. It was well into the evening when they finally left, the cool late spring air a relief after such a warm day. They walked for a while before Ezio stopped to sit at a bench and look up to his silent companion for the day.

"So what are your questions?"

Dogan first looked startled, then a little abashed. But he started to ask questions which Ezio patiently explained as he had with Sozzi back in Roma.

"Do you have an account for each den?" Dogan asked.

"Den?" Where had he heard that term before...

" _Evet_ , a base away from headquarters to keep an eye on the city." Ah. Yusuf's explanations the previous day.

Ezio shook his head. "We took Borgia towers and made bases, but Roma was centralized to the Vaticano. That was where our headquarters were, on the Tevere."

"But it could be applied to dens, yes?"

Ezio thought about it. "Much would depend on distance. If too many citizens are paying our one percent tax, the _sultan_ and his officials would discover it. Caution is an Assassin's greatest ally. Right besides boldness."

Dogan gave a small smile and continued to ask questions, mostly on how to know who to offer the tax to, etc.

"Assassins don't just exist to fight the Templars," Ezio explained. "We are here to help the people. By making their lives easier, free from strife and oppression and exploitation, people are free to learn and think and seek their own answers. If we agree or not, as people stumble through life, learning, we can hope our example, our love of people, friends, family, countryman, etc, will spread. It is through love that one gains peace."

A small corner of Ezio's mind, the piece that still grieved Cristina from all those years ago, wondered if he'd ever find that sort of love again. And through it, peace. But Ezio reminded himself he still had Claudia, Federica, and a vast brotherhood. He may not be completely at peace, but he was content.

… Right?

When they returned, Yusuf offered a wide, expansive grin and chuckle. "Praise the heavens!" he said expansively. "We feared we had lost our _Usta_ da Firenze to the vices of the big city!"

Ezio held back a grin. "I am content with my own vices, _grazie_." he nodded to Dogan, who nodded as well and went to go get scrolls and ink-stones. "Now, we have much to talk about."

For the next hour Ezio outlined how Assassin banking worked, how quickly money would start to come in, and once again listed his suggestions for how to improve the damage of the earthquake and better train all those novices.

Yusuf readily agreed for how to prioritize the repairs, but once more brushed aside ideas for the training of novices.

Ezio once more wanted to bang his head against the wall, but he resisted. It was late anyway and bed just sounded infinitely better.

By the end of the week, Ezio had done a fair bit of restructuring while Yusuf kept tending to do so much he was starting to run himself ragged. Even with the freeing of funds, Yusuf still had a nasty habit of insisting that he had to take care of a lot himself. So Ezio took one burden off of him and started to work with some of the younger orphans in Yusuf's care. Since the earthquake had made for many cracks and piles of rubble in the cistern's tunnels, Ezio used the natural hand holds to start helping the youngest learn how to climb and build up endurance. The children thought it a game and took great delight in seeing who could hold on for the longest, who could climb the highest, and who could climb the fastest. Since the tunnels were only tall enough for a man to stand, it ensured that if any fell there would be no serious injury, and Ezio watched them sharply to ensure even more.

And with the game mentality, the children would run off to practice their climbing when not at lessons for reading and writing, not even realizing that they were practicing skills they'd need later in their training.

_Perfetto_.

Dogan, meanwhile, Ezio sent across the river to do a census of the Assassins in all of Constantinopoli, something Yusuf didn't know after the earthquake as he went from crisis to crisis, and to get a better idea of how many novices, apprentices, journeyman, and full assassins made up their strength. The tall reticent Assassin offered an approving nod as he left, and a relieved smile. Yusuf was a micromanager as he had been going along, there wasn't much chance for Dogan to do things his own way, and the lieutenant appreciated the chance to handle things to his own discretion.

Which, Ezio realized, were quite exacting. Not only did Dogan return with the numbers requested, he also had all the names, who was in charge of what, the basic structures of organization, how many orphans and children ended up under their care, and the basic state of what each den was working on and how they were doing.

With all this information and the stories that circulated the table every night, Ezio's picture of how things were going in the massive city continued to clarify.

It wasn't pretty.

Yusuf wasn't using the full assassins still alive to the best of their abilities. Byzantines were indeed sneaking and leaking into the city and Dogan returned with an entire den of Assassins who had lost their base to the encroaching threat. Indeed, most of the dens were barely holding on, or were in hiding from the Byzantines and waiting for support to take back their den.

Yusuf sighed as Dogan went over the reports and started to assign the evacuated assassins to various tasks around the headquarters, which was bursting to the seams with Assassins that _needed_ to be sent out to those dens.

Ezio let out a sigh and continued to restructure how the youngest orphans were taught and trained, using his own trial and error lessons from when he was teaching reading and writing to his novices back in Roma. Yusuf smiled in relief, but still took to micromanaging what he could.

With all of that set, Ezio finally went to get proper armor for himself. Dogan was once more at his side, the tiniest of smiles twitching at the corner of his mouth.

"Things are already running smoother, _Usta_ da Firenze _,_ " he observed as they went to the blacksmith Yusuf trusted.

Alesandro was a cranky, bad-tempered, but incredibly talented blacksmith, Ezio found. Or rather, what he could discern through Dogan's translation of Alesandro's Greek. The consonants and vowels were all gobbledygook to Ezio's ears and he was grateful that Dogan was there to act as go-between. Just barely older than Ezio, Alesandro had been found and brought into the Order's fold by Yusuf's mentor, Ishak _Pasha_ , who had saved him from some brutal Janissaries who were demanding his work for free. It didn't take long for Ezio to pay for older armor that was incredibly well-crafted and Ezio was surprised that none had wanted to purchase it.

"Alesandro says that customers seem to prefer looks over pragmatism," Dogan translated. "Though he's far less polite in saying it."

"So I gathered," Ezio nodded, listening to a long string of Greek that _must_ be a litany of curses. Ezio hadn't worn such well-made armor since he had been in Roma. He'd left in pilgrimage, and in only light armor for any brigands he would face, preferring his natural speed to the heavier set he needed for all-out battle. The best armor he'd ever worn was still the Armor of Altaïr that had been locked away under Monteriggioni for centuries until Ezio had uncovered all the keys. But this was more than adequate.

" _Grazie,_ " Ezio offered. He asked questions through Dogan about any possible banks that he paid any Assassin taxes to, but the smith didn't know what Ezio was talking about, so he let the subject drop. He wondered how Yusuf's predecessor had financed the guild, but he likely would never know.

That evening, at dinner, Yusuf noted Ezio's more pensive mood by the fire and sat down with him.

"So, what's on your mind, Ezio?" he asked quietly, for once not calling him " _Usta_ da Firenze" as he so often did.

Ezio looked to Yusuf, thought of his disagreements on how to lead, and instead asked a different question. "Tell me more about the Templars," he said, setting aside his book. "You call them Byzantines, yet the Byzantine Empire was overthrown almost sixty years ago." The legends were impressive; many Greeks had immigrated to Italia after the fall, and they spoke of the ill omen of a red moon, fog in May which was unheard of, lights over Sancta Sophia – the Holy Spirit leaving the Cathedral, etc. The spiritual context of the Islamic Turks overtaking the Christian city were almost so provocative that the actual military campaign was often overlooked. Europe was _still_ nervous so many decades later that the Moors had such clear access to the West – something Ezio could never understand, but then he was at best agnostic when it came to religion of any kind.

Yusuf sat back and sipped his goat's milk, and looked into the fire. He sat for a moment, before sighing and shaking his head. "These men are remnants of a line loyal to the cause of the last Emperor, Constantine XI. Who leads them now, however, I cannot say."

Ezio sipped his wine, also looking to the fire and remembering his investigations over the course of his life, the long string that eventually lead him to the Borgia. "I understand," he said softly. "I suppose it is up to me to find out, as you're so busy."

Yusuf gave his usual large smile, acknowledging the point in their ongoing debate on how the Assassins of Constantinopoli should be run.

The following week stayed in a similar pattern. With Ezio overlooking the youngest, Yusuf kept working with the novices, apprentices, _and_ journeymen, leaving him very busy. Once Ezio had established the routine, he started to pass off parts of the training to the Assassins who were either healing or couldn't return yet to their dens, letting his framework keep the flexibility of different assassins being able to pick up the training and push further, depending on what strengths the Assassin in particular had.

With that task delegated, Ezio took to the libraries to see what was available for education, what was lacking, and what needed reorganization. Dogan and many of the journeymen ended up being a huge aide for this, as they knew their stacks better than Ezio and were eager to do anything to streamline the mess of salvaged materials that had been heaped together after the earthquake had damaged so much. Ezio couldn't quite help but note how many books were on explosives, and wondered why the Assassins of Constantinopoli relied so much on smoke bombs. Their city was such a complicated maze of levels and alleys and hills, he doubted he'd ever even need a smoke bomb in order to escape. But he had them centralized to one room, one room was dedicated to human anatomy, another became the room for concocting poisons, etc.

One evening, Ezio was by the fire, cleaning his hidden blade and sharpening it, quietly mourning the loss of his second blade that his friend Leonardo had crafted. He would need to ask Yusuf for another blade soon, especially now that Alesandro had provided proper bracers.

"Ezio," Yusuf asked, coming up behind him, "where is your hookblade?"

Ezio blinked, unfamiliar with the Turkish for a moment.

"My 'hookblade'?" he repeated carefully.

Yusuf flicked his wrist and two blades extended. One was a proper hidden blade, the other just in front of it, was indeed a "hook".

"You've never seen one?" Yusuf was surprised. "I grew up using these. An elegant design, you can use either the hook or the blade."

Already Ezio's tactical mind was seeing that hook and extrapolating what it could do to enemies, particularly since he'd been going through the library on human anatomy earlier that day. He studied the blade before looking up to Yusuf with a feral grin. "Show me how it works."

Yusuf smiled broadly and dragged Ezio to one of the beginning classes.

The class Yusuf brought Ezio to was of novices who were just learning a hookblade from a journeyman who was there now that his den had been lost; there were seven novices, likely his usual group from their den, ranging from ten to thirty. Yusuf quickly stepped in with the younger to get them focused and practicing. Ezio wasn't noticed as he kept his presence hidden and instead observed. Most of the maneuvers with the hookblade's hook were for easy deflection and grabbing. One teenage novice was using his blade to lift purses off a straw dummy and the journeyman was working with the older novices on how to hook an enemy's belt in order to roll over them. Another novice was practicing using the hook to topple scaffolding or merchant stands. Where the hook wasn't as useful was combat outside of deflection. The natural curve of the hook did not easily pierce the body unless swung at just the right angle and while the damage it could do was massive, it could also get easily caught if one wasn't careful.

Ezio wasn't sure he'd care to use the hookblade for anything other than deflections, because he was already incredibly skilled with two hidden blades. It was how he fought for decades now.

But as he watched, he practiced the proper finger movements to build up the muscle memory to unleash the hookblade.

As the end of the lesson approached, Yusuf grinned broadly and gestured to Ezio. " _Usta_ da Firenze! Come, show us how it's done!"

Ezio grinned. It was an interesting sparring bout. Yusuf, who had been using the hookblade for his entire life and Ezio, who had been using duel hidden blades for all of his life. And, where Yusuf had had a mentor to teach him to use the hidden blades, Ezio had needed to learn on his own for a long time, between visits of his uncle Mario as he trained for the trip to Spain he never took to save his family.

Between clashes of blades, Ezio could see how useful the hookblade could be in battle as he couldn't before with the practice and slow training of novices, but he still stood by his initial assessment, that the hookblade wasn't as good as a dual hidden blade.

It was either the preference of the dual hidden blade or his extra decade of experience, that left Ezio the clear winner.

Once they had stopped, Yusuf blinked and then laughed out loud as he noticed what Ezio had already seen as it had happened. Many of the brotherhood were crowded in the training room to see the sparring of two undisputed masters.

Which was exactly what Ezio had wanted and why he had held back for so long. Simply announcing a spar would have given too much weight as the Assassins would most likely start a betting pool. By being unplanned and spontaneous, the Assassins were far more attentive to style and technique, though there was still some money changing hands.

Ezio was immediately surrounded, as was Yusuf, with all sorts of questions on what they had done and how to make the split-second decisions necessary for such a battle.

It was a long conversation that lasted well through dinner and into the night.

Once the Assassins were more gone and the night watch got all of _their_ questions answered, Yusuf and Ezio sat by the fire.

The Turkish Assassin was still chuckling and giggling. "My _Suikastchi_ are always so grim and determined, Ezio," he said. "I've never seen them so enthusiastic!"

Ezio sipped his wine and settled further into the chair that he'd claimed as his. "You have fun with what you do, Yusuf," he replied quietly. "They need to know they can as well."

Yusuf sat back in quiet contemplation, sipping his milk.

"Still," Yusuf said after a moment. "I notice you don't find the hookblade quite to your taste?"

Ezio shook his head, quietly explaining his observations. "It will be a fine tool for deflecting and disarming, but my twin blades are swifter and more versatile."

And, to Ezio's surprise, Yusuf simply offered a face-splitting smile.

* * *

The next afternoon, as the shadows started to lengthen, Yusuf and Dogan were in the small courtyard of the abandoned mosque, looking to a wall that was even more hidden by being further back than the door to the Assassin's hideout. It was a very tall wall, one Ezio would need to use his right shoulder for after all the damage done to the left by the bullet in Monteriggioni.

Until Yusuf motioned and Dogan easily leapt up, using the hook of the hookblade to grasp the edge and pull himself up.

Ezio didn't even pause, he launched himself at the wall, reaching up with his left arm, twisting his fingers just so to unleash the hook, and climbed like he hadn't been able to for a decade.

Yusuf couldn't quite stop laughing.

"Follow my lead!"

What followed was a running course likely reserved for advanced Assassins, but Ezio didn't care if it was difficult or not. He was reveling in the freedom of not being limited by his bad shoulder any more. He was relishing the movement and perfecting it with every reach and grasp and pull.

It was _exhilarating_.

Yusuf barely kept ahead, only staying in the front because he knew the route, and he didn't stop laughing. "Think you can keep up?" he chortled, jumping a massive distance, using the hookblade to grasp a hanging plant and using it to swing across, leaving it swaying behind him. Ezio didn't miss a beat, using a different item, a hanging lantern, to swing the gap to a beam and keeping an easy pace. Dogan, meanwhile, panted behind them, not having the hanging items to keep up and needing to take longer paths.

As dusk finally fell, the three dropped down to the courtyard once more, Dogan barely landing before sprawling out on the ground. Yusuf was flushed, but still had his breath control, and Ezio only took a moment to feel his age and lean forward, putting his hands to his knees.

Yusuf flicked his eyes to the massive tower that dominated the skyline of this side of Constantinopoli. "How about a bigger challenge?" he said, half panting, half laughing.

Ezio's sharp eyes were already tracing paths up to the top.

" _Si._ In the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's that time again! Eighteen chapters of Ezio badassery and us trying to knit together a plot that has everything but the kitchen sink and try to make if feasible. Consider yourself warned, much whining about said plot will be rampant through the authors notes.
> 
> Also, AC:Unity: Cue the obligatory rant about women and games and women in AC, as seen in our deviantart page.
> 
> Also, also: Since we were blessed to have a beta on Islamic culture and gave us a huge glut of knowledge, we decided to add little Muslim lessons at the end of every chapter. The Western World doesn't get nearly enough exposure to it, so we can now with guilty pleasure label this fic edutainment! Yay!
> 
> Also, also, also: This summer we're going to begin writing AC3 (er, duh?), and in light of that we are LOOKING FOR BETAS. We need a French beta since - though we took French for six years - we've forgotten a lot of it, and there's a freakin' lot of French in the game. Similarly, with characters like Achilles who's African American and Connor who is half Native American, racism and how minorities are treated in pre-Revolution America is going to be a must, and we are sadly two sickly white girls. We would like a beta who can nitpick Connor's and Achilles' reactions to, well, life over the course of the fic to make sure we don't either gloss over or overplay the facts of the world they live in.
> 
> Also, also, also, also (god, we're up to four...): For the chapter itself there isn't much to say other than CULTURE SHOCK. We bent over backwards to make sure that Istanbul had a distinct feel over Ezio's more familiar Italy, and will continue to do so over the course of the fic. More than anything else, this is a chapter of impressions: impressions of Suleiman, impressions of Sofia, impressions of Yusuf (mostly for maximum tear potential later on, let's be honest (Yes we can be that shallow)), impressions of Istanbul, and impressions of Istanbul Assassins, or Suikastchi. It feels a little like a grandiose info-dump, and we haven't even met Ahmet and Selim. All the explanation is absolutely necessary and for Ezio exposition is really the only way he's going to get this and still keep up with the world around him, but it's incredibly dry and rote as a result, making the chapter boring - unless you're us and you find nitty-gritty details like financing an underground guild of assassins or the political posturing of shezadem fascinating. We hope it holds up with our audience.
> 
> Muslim Lesson: Islam revolves around two things: the first is the Prophetic Word: the Qu'ran, which is composed of the Jewish Torah, Christian New Testament, and then the tales of Muhammed (peace be upon him). The second thing is the Prophetic Traditions: the Hadith, which are the customs and practices of Islam. Judaism and Christianity only have their holy books, which is why their traditions differ and change over time as the books are interpreted; the most obvious example of this is the Great Schism of Christianity, which happens shortly after Revelations in Europe when a certain priest posted ninety-five theses.
> 
> Sunni Islam, by contrast, is considered "complete," because the hadith help to interpret the Qu'ran. There are, of course, factions of Islam that don't follow the hadith, and interpret the Qu'ran as they choose. These minority (something like 10% of the Islamic population) factions are often so turned around and backwards as to no longer be even seen as Muslim. These factions are grouped under the label of Shiah, or Shi'it.
> 
> Next chapter: Ezio bats Yusuf over the head on how to be a leader.


	3. Teaching to Lead

Galata Tower was built in 1348, a replacement for the original tower that had been destroyed in the Fourth Crusade. It dominated the sky, and the morning had Yusuf finding Ezio already at the base of the tower, studying it closely, his eyes tracing paths as he had since the first gray light of dawn started to shine, the thrill of such a challenge and the freedom the hookblade provided giving him little rest as he studied this obstacle that he would conquer. Yusuf only chuckled and then they were off.

It was clear from the start that Yusuf had the advantage. This tower and its climb were probably parts of basic training among the Turkish Assassins, and it was obvious with every grab and leap he made that he knew this climb like the back of his hand and could easily do it in his sleep.

But that was also his downfall. He stuck to the well-traveled rule that every Assassin likely took.

Ezio didn't know that trail and took a different one, one he'd been spying the night before. His leaps were combinations of the jumping grab that Rosa had taught him decades ago in Venezia and using the hookblade that Yusuf had showed him just the previous day. Ezio had decades of practice in climbing, starting with the first lessons his brother Federico had taught him over thirty years prior and honed over the long fight with the Borgia. It did not belittle Yusuf's own experience and knowledge of his own city, but Ezio had a reason for this climb beyond winning a simple competition. He was proving to himself he once more had freedom.

It was a difference of desire.

Ezio reached the top first, the flat roof wide enough to lie on, and glanced down. Yusuf wasn't far behind, but he would still be several minutes. In the meantime, Ezio climbed even higher, reaching the top spire.

Once atop, Ezio looked out across the massive city, admiring its own unique charm that was so different from Italia. The sun was now approaching midmorning, glinting off the waters of the Halich. Massive monuments across the river almost glittered in the morning light, towering spires of mosques contrasting with the crystal blue early summer sky. And just barely visible in the distance was the Sea of Marmara to the south, the connector between the Aegean and Black Seas, and it was truly a breathtaking sight.

Yusuf came to the flat roof, panting, and looked around. Ezio could hear the Turkish mentor looking for him below. But Ezio waited a moment appreciating the view, before climbing back down.

"There you are," Yusuf laughed. " _Usta_ da Firenze, always going that extra mile."

Ezio offered a small enigmatic smile.

Yusuf chuckled again and also looked out to the magnificent spread of the city below them. "Welcome to Konstantiniyye, Ezio," he said reverently looking out. "The crossroads of the world. Many generations of men have ruled this city, but they have never subdued her. She always bounces back."

Ezio nodded, remembering Altaïr's entries in the Codex about the Fourth Crusade and the bits of history he had known since then.

"It seems a fine place to call home," he replied.

"It is."

They sat at the edge of the roof, enjoying a moment of quiet silence and recuperating from the climb.

"I am impressed," Ezio finally said, engaging the hook of the hookblade. "My brothers in Roma would like this."

Yusuf once more chuckled. "Just give credit where it is due."

Ezio nodded. "Now, how do we go down?"

* * *

Three days later, Ezio was once more bickering with Yusuf about the delegation needed to be a good leader when a full Assassin came running in, arm bandaged with blood leaking through. " _Usta_! Come quickly!"

"Eh?" Yusuf turned, surprised. "Kasim, what's wrong?"

"An attack on two fronts! Galata and the Kapalicharshi."

Yusuf cursed vehemently. "Every day the same bad news!" he growled, strapping on a sword. He turned to Ezio. "How is your appetite for swordplay?"

Ezio smiled with full Florentine irony. "I do what I must."

"Good man."

They quickly left the cisterns and went up to the rooftops, easily moving through the midday. It was cloudy, offering some reprieve from the oncoming summer heat, and Ezio was glad for the sea breeze as they ran. They made their way east, Kasim leading the way.

"Dogan has gone ahead to the Galata den to rally the men," Kasim explained. "He should be able to hold them off until our arrival."

Ten minutes later they paused atop a rounded roof where Dogan was waiting.

"Time to part company," Yusuf said seriously. "Kasim and I will head to the Kapalicharshi, Allah willing; you stay here."

"And I will handle the Galata den."

" _Guzel_ ," Yusuf said softly. "I can't be in two places at once... But with you here, I don't have to be. Good luck."

Yusuf and Kasim took off towards the river to get passage across and Ezio offered good thoughts for their success. He turned to Dogan. "What is our situation?"

Dogan, after working closely with Ezio for some time now, explained in precise, succinct detail the strength of the den and the sightings of Byzantines skulking about. With armor and weapon prices rising, it was clear that an assault was planned, and soon.

" _Va bene._ " Ezio quickly dropped to the street. "How is your den set up as?"

"A candlemaker's," Dogan replied promptly. "Almanzor was a candlemaker in Spain before he was evicted in the purge."

"Excellent," Ezio said, entering the shop. "Time to set a trap."

It seemed that most dens were used to fighting in the streets to defend themselves, or hunting down where the Byzantines were gathering and attacking them there. What Ezio had in mind was far different. The den only had three fully trained Assassins, the rest being journeymen and apprentices. Once Ezio spoke with all of them on what their skills were and what their individual strengths were, it was easy to set a plan in motion.

The youngest apprentice was placed out in the streets, using hand signals to inform those inside the shop of what was approaching. It was expected that somewhere between ten and twenty Byzantines would assault the shop, a small enough force to slip through the streets in squads and not be noticed by the Janissaries and city guard, but large enough to overwhelm an Assassin's den where there were few full Assassins and many partially trained ones.

Ezio made a mental note that dens needed to be better staffed for the more diverse needs of defense. He also noted that these novices and journeyman had difficulty trailing. Courtesans weren't as open on the streets in Constantinopoli as they were in Roma so Ezio wondered what guild did the training of invisibility.

Another apprentice was on the streets as well, waiting for the signal to go and _get_ the city guard when they were ready.

Dogan and the others had been surprised by this, assuming it would be happening silently.

"The sultan and his men don't want Byzantines in this city any more than we do. We can use that to our advantage."

Inside the shop was a flurry of preparations, candle wax was heated, doors were barricaded or left open, shelves were turned to certain angles and then overstuffed with candles, wicks, candleholders, snuffers, pokers and various paraphernalia associated with a candle shop.

From there, it was simply a matter of waiting.

The Byzantines came shortly after nightfall, just as late evening prayers were staring, a single whistle from the outside apprentice their only warning before the front door was broken down and the windows shattered.

It was clear the Byzantines were over confident, thinking they had taken the Assassin's completely by surprise. Ezio and Dogan watched through a removed floorboard from above as they pushed deeper into the shop. With a sharp rap on the floor, the journeymen who had been hiding behind the shelves stood and shoved, sending the overstocked shelves teetering and then collapsing onto the Byzantines with the multiple sharp pointy objects and a lot of weight.

Though surprised, the Byzantines still poured into the shop, clambering over the shelves to chase the journeymen deeper into the store. But with a third of their forces lost under the shelves, it was not the type of ordered assault they had planned. It was frenzied and lacking plan or foresight, which was what Ezio was counting on. The next wave finally stumbled over the collapsed shelves found a massive candelabra dropping on their heads, concussing most of them. When the _third_ wave finally broke through, more cautiously after watching their squads getting taken down so easily, approached the stairs leading up to the living space. That was where the apprentices waited with Almanzor and a large vat of boiling candle wax that was summarily dumped on the approaching Byzantines.

When they started screaming, the apprentice outside ran for the city guards to inform them of an assault on an innocent shop owner.

"The city guard turn blind eyes to _Assassini_ taking out Byzantines, correct?" Ezio asked as he and the other Assassins started to clean up evidence of their presence.

" _Evet_ ," Dogan replied.

"Then we'd best leave and not push our luck. Let's not be here when the guard arrive."

The Assassins disappeared onto the moonlit rooftops, leaving Almanzor to handle the guards.

"You need a new den," Ezio commented to the various Assassins. "If the Byzantines can find you and assault you so regularly, you need a new location where you can hide and instead find _them_. Almanzor will remain an ally that you can defend, but you need a new base for the district."

One of the Assassins stepped forward. "I know my way around carpets. It wouldn't take much to set up a shop."

"Good. Then find a building for purchase and we'll set up there. We can also buy an adjacent building and make passages between to further hide ourselves." They continued down to the docks, discussing possibilities. "Get to headquarters and prepare. The faster you can move to a new base, the faster you can secure Galata against more Byzantines incursions."

The Galata Assassins nodded and dispersed into the nighttime crowds. Ezio turned to Dogan. "Let's get to the den at the Kapalicharshi."

" _Evet_ , _Usta_." Dogan brought Ezio to a ferryman and they quickly took to water under the moonlight.

It had been a long day and Ezio was starting to feel the drag of it. He had been up well before dawn implementing a new plan on training some of the journeyman in basic strength by clearing out some of the collapsed tunnels, and he had been beside them for most of the morning. And with these attacks, it was now well into the night and the strain of the day was starting to wear on Ezio. He scowled harshly, hating the fact that he was getting old and that in just over a month he'd be fifty-two.

It was almost midnight when they finally docked and it didn't take much to see that Yusuf wasn't doing well.

Ezio didn't know where the den was for this district, but he doubted it was at the docks where Yusuf and Kasim were holding off a half dozen Byzantines with another squad approaching.

"Help Yusuf!" Ezio ordered to Dogan, leaping off the boat and running up the dock.

Yusuf threw a heavily armored Byzantine into the water and saw him. "Ezio!" he called, half laughing. "Come meet my new friends!"

Ezio blew right by, the sword of Altaïr already in hand. The squad of seven ahead of him was all startled at his speedy approach, scrambling to pull out their swords. The captain already had one free, and was swinging as Ezio approached. But the hookblade easily deflected it, spinning the captain enough for Ezio to boot him over the edge of the stairs to a lower dock. Of the six remaining squad members of the squad, only two had their swords out, and they were in the back. Having had more space and time to prepare, and Ezio and his sword started to swiftly cut through the red armor of the Byzantines. Ezio was aggressive and ferocious, a sword impaling one Templar while his hidden gun exploded in the face of another, working as swiftly as he could to remove the threat before his exhaustion caught up with him and the younger soldiers showed that they had more endurance than him.

It was over in minutes, and Ezio took a moment to just lean forward and catch his breath.

Yusuf and Dogan and Kasim all looked at each other and Yusuf put a hand on Ezio's shoulder. "You fight like a man late for his own wedding," he observed quietly.

" _Sì_ ," Ezio agreed, still catching his breath. "By about twenty-five years."

And it hurt to admit that. It hurt to admit he was getting older and didn't have the endurance he had even five years ago. He did everything he could to stay healthy, stay active, stay ready, but the wear and tear of years of fighting was slowly catching up to him. And Ezio was _tired_ of it.

The Turkish Assassins all shared another glance as Ezio straightened.

Yusuf let the subject drop. "I was too late to save the bazaar den, unfortunately." he glanced around and smiled under the moonlight. "But now that my army has doubled in size, we'll take it back together. This way."

"Where are the _Assassini_ of the den?" Ezio asked as they easily slipped into the night's shadowed alleys.

"Mostly evacuated," Yusuf replied grimly. "Of the fifteen, three are dead, seven are wounded, Allah forgive me. I sent them on a ferry just before you arrived. That's how the Byzantines found us."

Ezio shook his head. "At least they are safe. That leaves the four of us."

"Three, _Usta,_ " Dogan replied quietly. "Kasim shouldn't fight. Not with his arm like this. Mazhar will have our heads for letting him come along as it is."

They stopped in an alley, light from the candles of the streets letting them look at Kasim's arm. It was a deep gash, still bleeding steadily despite the tight bandaging. Ezio didn't need to see more before he was digging into his pouches to pull out needle and thread that were quickly sterilized in fire and swiftly used to sew up the wound.

" _Usta_ da Firenze," Yusuf said quietly, but with a smile. "You are truly full of surprises."

"One quickly learns enough doctoring to ensure survival to meet a true doctor," Ezio replied. He tried not to think of Monteriggioni and the mercenaries who had stitched his leg as best they could, only to have the doctor un-and-redo the stitches. The incident was decades ago, the loss of Monteriggioni over ten years ago. But it still stung.

By the time he was done and had deemed that Kasim had had enough rest, the sun was already starting to rise as they took to the streets once more. At Yusuf's suggestion, Dogan and Ezio held Kasim, so it appeared they were heading to a doctor as they stumbled down the streets, Kasim deliberately tripping to enhance the act.

Having spent so long up in Galata, Ezio had not thought he'd notice a difference in the southern, larger half of the city. After all, it was still one city, whether on the European side or the Asian. But it didn't take long for Ezio to notice some startling differences already. Byzantines, in full armor, were stomping the streets, weapons in clear view. They were banging on the doors of shopkeepers and making demands.

Yusuf tisked beside him. "When the Templars take control of a district, they flaunt their presence, extorting merchants, intimidating workers. It's a constant battle to keep them at bay and they rub our noses in every victory."

Ezio shook his head. "They are quite bold. Why does the _Sultan_ tolerate this?"

" _Sultan_ Bayezid is far away," Yusuf replied somberly. "Warring with his son Selim many leagues northwest of the city, remember?" The Turkish mentor shook his head with a heavy sigh. "He has been away for years, at least since the Little Judgement, maybe even before. He is blind to all this turmoil and we must clean up the pieces."

Which was part of the reason Yusuf was still in an emergency mindset. He truly _was_ trying to do everything from rebuilding, training, and keeping a steady flow of Templars out of the city. He hadn't had time to breathe and properly plan.

"Ah," Ezio said quietly, adjusting Kasim's weight, "but your eyes are open, _sì_?"

Yusuf chuckled in his usual affable manner. "Like two full moons. Believe it."

Seeing so much activity, he silently motioned that they needed to get off the streets and soon all four of them were up on the roofs.

"We need to rethink how we approach," he explained. "With the Templars so bold and open, we can't simply do a frontal assault. They will be able to call up support almost instantly."

Yusuf acknowledged the point. "How many bombs do we have between us?"

Ezio frowned. "I'm not confident a smoke bomb will help us here."

Yusuf laughed outright. "Smoke bomb? _Usta_ da Firenze, it's time you Italians joined the sixteenth century. Bombs can do more than obscure. They can distract, isolate, kill."

"Oh?" Ezio raised a brow. "You are full of surprises."

"Crafting explosives is a new hobby," Yusuf said smiling. "One we borrowed from the Chinese and have taken to with a great _passion_."

"I can't imagine what the morning after looks like," Ezio replied, sending Dogan and Kasim into barely-contained laughter. "You will have to teach me how exactly that works."

Yusuf's face was so pole-axed, that Ezio allowed himself a chuckle. It was a break in the tension. The Byzantines were still around them and needed to be dealt with, but it was good to laugh. Yusuf seemed to always live by this philosophy, always ready with a joke or laughing over something. Apparently, it was a rarity indeed that someone had pulled one over on _him_.

Finally, Yusuf laughed out as well, rubbing tears from his eyes and going on and on. The sun was still rising, but when Yusuf finally contained himself, his best response was, "Who is the _Usta_ here, Ezio? I am beginning to wonder."

But they were once more discussing bombs and specifically what types were had between them. Ezio, obviously, had smoke bombs. But the others had interesting additions to the arsenal. Yusuf had cherry bombs, excellent for distractions, but it was Kasim and Dogan who had the more interesting ones. Dogan had bombs that were filled with lamb's blood, made to isolate a target for killing, and Kasim had a sort of poison bomb that could kill several at once, driving them to fear-inducing hallucinations like the poison Ezio used in his poison blade.

"If a frontal assault won't work," Ezio said, "then it's time to effect some fear."

Yusuf immediately liked the plan once he heard it, altering the parts to better fit the high Muslim population and their beliefs, opposed to what Ezio would do to the Catholics of Italia.

From there, the day was spent pointing out Byzantines to the Janissaries and city guards with shouts of "He's a murderer!" after a Byzantine was doused in lamb's blood in an alley and stumbled into the street, or "Allah's wrath is smiting an infidel!" when a Byzantine was properly hallucinating.

It made the Janissaries and city guards start taking a closer look in the district as more and more incidents kept happening in the span of a single day. Ezio's own poison blade started to take over once Kasim's bombs were used up, and it wasn't long until the basic bureaucracy that ran a city of this size took over and more and more started hunting down the Byzantines that were trying to intimidate the district they'd just taken over.

With the Byzantines on the defensive after just successfully taking over the district, they quickly regathered at the den to see what was going on. Which was just what Ezio and Yusuf wanted. The building was swiftly set to fire, Janissaries were called for as an arsonist was on the loose, and when the Byzantines coughed and choked their way out, it was into the waiting arms of city officials.

"I didn't spy a captain for those Byzantines," Yusuf murmured from the roof across the fire. "Ezio can you use those legendary senses of yours to find the one strutting about like a plucked peacock after all the havoc we've caused, Allah willing?"

But Ezio was already heading down to the streets, tailing the captain sneaking away from all his men who had been captured. His trusty hidden blade that he'd worn for decades once more tasted blood and he was already going down an alley when the man finally staggered and fell.

* * *

Desmond blinked. He was back on Animus Island, having been searched out and ejected back to his own partition of his mind.

" _I'm seeing very strange activity in the Animus,_ " Rebecca was saying above him.

" _Oh_?" Desmond tried to ignore all the feelings his father always brought up in him.

" _The CPU should be fairly idle,_ " Rebecca explained. " _But the system monitor is spiking regularly. Sometimes as high as eighty-five percent._ "

Desmond rolled his eyes. Given that he was effectively using the Animus to relive memories, it was obvious why it was spiking so much, but it wasn't like he could explain that to them.

" _Is it serious_?"

" _I'm not sure. Desmond's signs are stable._ "

" _Well, if there isn't a problem,_ " William said nonchalantly, " _let's not try to fix anything._ "

"... _Fair enough,_ " Rebecca replied.

Desmond sighed, missing being able to converse with people. He looked around, noting the strange blocks that looked like it came from Those Who Came Before still half buried in the ground or floating in the sky.

"God _, I need a drink,_ " Rebecca lamented.

"Me too," Desmond replied. He wondered what Lucy's funeral was like. What was happening with the Assassins? Where was he and where was he going? He felt like he was in motion, but he wasn't sure in what or to where. Why was his father there; it was clear that he didn't care.

Desmond halted that line of thinking. His father _had_ cared. That was why it was training, training, training as a child. But his father never _showed_ it. His father was a militaristic only-the-mission-matters type and you just _couldn't_ get love out of that. And Desmond had been a child in a militaristic upbringing. He, like any child, had _needed_ love. So he had left. Among other reasons.

Sighing, Desmond reached up to rub the bridge of his nose. His father always brought up such mixed emotions a headache was inevitable. Maybe once it was gone he could go back to Ezio and...

Desmond blinked.

Lying on the ground, curled up in the fetal position was... "Sixteen?"

Clay blinked, seeming to become aware of himself. Then he energetically sat up. "Desmond," he greeted, his smile once more off-kilter. "Think about this... What if I went with you?"

A swift chill went down Desmond's spine. "With me? Where?"

"It could work!" Clay said expansively, gesturing. "Just for a while! Until I found a way out. Another body, maybe. Or... I don't know..." the energy seemed to just drain out of the blond Assassin. The creepy smile disappeared, a haunted look filling his face. "I don't want to _be_ here anymore."

Desmond could relate. He could relate all too well. He remembered going insane, memories leaking together, and feeling like nothing was wrong. He'd been stuck in this Animus for who-knew how long. And he remembered his childhood, the restrictions and training, and just not wanting to be there either.

It was just all so very sad.

"That's..." Desmond shook his head. "That's not going to happen," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

Clay still smiled. Broken. Sorrowed. "No. I guess I had my chance," he said, curling to the fetal position on the ground again. "And I wasted it." Swiftly, he faded into particles of light and disappeared.

Desmond sighed, sitting down himself, and just rubbed his face.

He wondered vaguely when his life had become a Greek tragedy, with so many victims just piling up.

" _Were they close?_ " William asked. " _Desmond and Lucy? I mean... closer than friends?_ "

"Aw geez, Dad," Desmond growled. "Checking up on me? You _knew_ I was back as an Assassin, right? So you couldn't have, oh I don't know, _called_?" And why did his father even care in the first place? He'd never shown any interest in Desmond growing up beyond whatever was necessary to train.

Rebecca, it seemed, was off guard and awkward with such a question. " _Ah... Well, there was the occasional misty-eyed moment, but-_ "

" _She liked him, Bill,_ " Shaun cut in, obviously irritated and snappish, more so than usual. " _That's what she told me._ "

" _Hmm. Interesting._ "

Desmond just rolled his yes. That was just like his dad. Unemotional and distant.

" _That's it_?" Rebecca replied, a hint of danger in her voice. " _Just... interesting? This is your son we're talking about. You know, the one currently in a_ coma _?_ "

William let out a soft breath. " _I spent a lot of time training each of them when they were younger,_ " he replied stiffly. " _She was a remarkable woman, and I find this whole situation... quite sad._ "

"Yeah, I bet," Desmond groused.

" _Sad?_ " Shaun replied in full sarcastic bite. " _Are you finally going soft on us, Bill_?"

Desmond shook his head. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to hear his father be interested now that Desmond couldn't argue back, he didn't want to hear sadness or sympathy from the father Desmond was content to keep as a villain, he couldn't listen to this.

So Desmond turned and headed back into the memories of his ancestor Ezio.

* * *

The beginning of June brought a meeting with Yusuf and his upper echelon of Assassins. Ezio was invited to sit in on the meeting, and he quietly listened in his chair while the others were crouched on their pillows and benches, explaining the state of their dens, immediate needs, contacts about the city, etc. Dogan shared his numbers of his earlier census, and Azize, the dedicated Muslim woman who was forever seen pouring over maps and decoding messages and sending out carrier pigeons, talked about the most recent rounds of letters and reports from the rest of the guild. She had two enclosed letters from Claudia for the grandmaster to peruse later. Mazhar talked about the reorganization of their libraries with high praise, but noted that they really needed to fix the damaged sections of the cistern. Again.

"Be at peace," Ezio said to the doctor's polite insistence, "I'm working on it."

Yusuf perked, looking up, before a wry grin pressed against his square beard. "Really, _Usta_? And what else have you been up to when I'm not looking?"

Ezio smirked, and then explained in detail about what he had been up to for the last five weeks: restructuring how the orphans and children were taught, ordering the census and reorganizing the library, linking the city to the Assassin funding, and familiarizing himself with the surrounding areas of the massive Galata Tower. Yusuf stared at the older man openly, mouth slightly agape, and blinked. A full thirty seconds later, he gave one massive guffaw and slapped his knee. "Truly, a most crafty _usta, Usta_ da Firenze. I see why the Borgia fell to you so completely. And now you're looking for a mason?"

" _Sì_ ," Ezio replied, Yusuf's affable nature making him grin. "I want to be a little more familiar with the city, but I was hoping that our contacts with the Thief and Mercenary guilds might have some suggestions. Who are they?"

A long, awkward silence settled over the meeting, eyes looking either down or to Yusuf. He rubbed his beard and ran a hand through his greasy hair. "Eh," he said, scratching nervously, "What contacts?"

Ezio's gaze turned downright flinty. "You mean to tell me that all my letters explaining what I did, all the advice I spent months putting together, went in one ear and out the other?"

" _No_ ," Yusuf said, slightly defensive, "We just didn't have _time_ , you've seen how ragged we're run, would _you_ have time to contact other guilds?"

… This couldn't be put off, then. Ezio breathed in deeply through his nose and threw a glance at the other assassins gathered. "We need to talk privately," he said in a low voice, "Was there anything else to report?"

"No," Azize said quickly, the others nodding and all but bolting from their seats to run away from the impending argument – or, more likely, find a great place to eavesdrop.

Ezio stood, rolling his hips to get the kinks of age out, and Yusuf quickly followed, and within five minutes they were at an ancient desk Ezio had appropriated for his lists and plans and letters to his sister. He placed her two correspondences by the candle and turned to face the Turkish assassin. "You have a problem," he said with no preamble.

"I know that, Ezio," Yusuf said.

"No, you don't," Ezio pressed. "You know that you have more children and novices than anyone with a hint of training, you know that your dens are constantly under attack, you know that Templars are slowly and effectively building a presence here in Constantinopoli, you know that your _sultan_ is fighting his sons and that there are rebellions out in the empire. What you don't know, or perhaps just don't realize, is that _you can handle all of that_."

"You just said-"

"Yusuf," Ezio said, stepping forward and into the Turk's personal space. "Do you know how I built the Order from scratch after Monteriggioni fell?"

Yusuf blinked, lips pressed into a rare frown, his eyes growing distant as he searched his memory. "No," he said finally, his voice soft. "Some of your correspondences never came through."

"I had nothing, Yusuf," Ezio said, his voice low and pained. "Nothing but the clothes on my back, a bullet in my shoulder, and my _Zio's_ face as his temple exploded from a firearm discharged by Cesare Borgia himself. On my own, by myself, any thought of fixing what had been broken was just smoke from dying embers. There was no hope. _None_ , Yusuf. Do you know how I even survived?" A shake of the head. "Niccolò Machiavelli. Claudia Auditore. Bartolomeo d'Alviano. Gilberto la Volpe. Four names, four people, four _assassini._ When I started gathering recruits, I could not hope to train them all myself; and so instead I rotated them. La Volpe, the master thief, taught my recruits to run. Bartolomeo, _condottiero_ taught them to fight. Claudia, my sister, took over a brothel and taught them to be invisible. That left me to teach them to climb and be assassins. Machiavelli kept his eyes on the papal courts, he singled out people to be eliminated; Bartolomeo kept the French at bay as they tried to invade Italia and gave us breathing room; Volpe eliminated rival thief guilds; and Claudia and her girls handed over the information necessary to purge the senate and the Vatican both of Borgia's supporters. _I could not have defeated the Borgia_ if I didn't delegate everything that was necessary to do, and I could not have done it if I did not _rely on the other guilds._

"You, Yusuf, you are governing the Order from crisis to crisis. You got your brothers and sisters to survive a catastrophe, and that alone is testament to how good you are as a leader. You clearly have a gift at recruiting new blood. You are affable, charismatic, determined, and more than willing to dip your hands into the work, but Yusuf, if you learn nothing else, learn that _you can't do it yourself_. This isn't a philosophical debate, _kardashim_ , this is simple technocratic pragmatism. _Delegate_. You trust Dogan as your second, use him. Him and others. If you have no others, then _find_ others. Contact the other guilds and build relationships with them. Farm out training to them, hell, do something I haven't thought of, but for the sake of your Brotherhood _delegate_."

Yusuf gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, eyes wide.

" _Usta_..." He licked his lips, the weight of Ezio's words hanging over him, before he tried again. " _Usta,_ you don't have to go so far..."

Ezio shook his head. "You are a brother, a _kardashim_." It was his job, it was _anyone's_ job, to help a brother. Ezio had a long list of people in his past who had helped him: _Zio_ Mario, la Volpe, Paola, Antonio, etc. He could do no less now that he was a master assassin, let alone a grandmaster.

" _Usta_ , it's more than that," Yusuf said. "You've already done so much for us: the advice you already sent, the help with the Venetian-Ottoman War, killing the Borgias. You said this pilgrimage was for wisdom, you shouldn't have to inject yourself in our troubles—"

Ezio reached up and placed a hand on Yusuf's shoulder. "You are a _kardashim_ ," he repeated, gaze intense.

The silence hung for several moments, both men looking into the other's eyes, and then, quite unexpectedly, Yusuf threw his arms around Ezio and hugged him. Tightly. The old grandmaster stiffened, surprised, and after a good twenty seconds Yusuf let go just as quickly.

"You have no idea what you have just done, _Usta_ ," he said, his affable grin once more spreading across his beard. "I will owe you a debt for this, likely for the rest of my life."

"Then pay it forward instead of backward," Ezio replied. "Bestow your gratitude to the Order, and to the people of this city."

Yusuf laughed. "Crafty indeed. I like the way you think."

"It is not craft it is-"

"Pure, technocratic pragmatism, I know. You see the world very differently, _Usta_ da Firenze. I look forward to learning how."

The next morning the two called another meeting of the upper echelon assassins, and Ezio went into vivid detail on how he rebuilt his Order after it had been devastated. Several of the assassins blinked or nodded, Azize taking copious notes in her fine hand. When he was finished, Yusuf asked how they could use the story to help themselves, and that lead to several ideas and rough plans on how to be better connected with the city. Ezio learned that their core base of information was in the university and with the heralds; both were lucrative places of information Ezio did not have access to in Roma, but that those were the only contacts left after the Little Judgment. The previous mentor, Ishak _Pasha_ , had been a closed lipped, secretive individual, and only now did the guild realize just what a loss he was, because the former lord never wrote down or passed on his list of contacts. With this new revelation, Yusuf broke the assassins into teams of two to scout out different candidates that might show promise.

After that was a several hour meeting with Yusuf personally, Ezio explaining how the Order in Roma was run. Yusuf, it seemed, was detail-oriented, and the old grandmaster found himself breaking things down and down and _down_ in order to satisfy the Turk, and the affable assassins soaked it all up liberally, sometimes with a sly grin or comment, before he dismissed Ezio with an "I have much to think about," and disappeared to the mosque above to do some thinking.

By the end of the week, Yusuf came to Ezio and explained their progress.

"You have earned your titles with reason, _Usta_ da Firenze," he said expansively, walking up with arms spread wide apart to prove his point, Ezio asking a journeyman to take over teaching some children to join the Turkish mentor. They went above ground, taking one of the well-traveled paths to the roofs and up to the base of an old clothesline, looking out over the Halich and to the larger expanse of the city.

"We don't have courtesans here the way you do, Ezio," Yusuf said brightly. "Muslims don't like debauchery as much as you Christians, but I already know what, or rather who, can take their place in the network you've created: the Romani. Do you know them?"

"I don't."

"I'll introduce you once we've made ourselves known to them," Yusuf said, nodding his head. "We don't have a contact with the mercenaries yet, but we do know where they are located. They have a barrack on the south side of the city, by the Arsenal and Kuchuk Ayasofya, right by the port. Their leader is a man named Cenk. He runs a fight club at the port. We've placed a few of our men into the tournaments, that will get his attention."

"And the thieves?"

"Eh, they're a little harder to find, as you can imagine," Yusuf said, rubbing his head.

Ezio leveled a flat gaze.

"And, since you want me to delegate, I thought the renowned _Usta_ da Firenze might want to lend a hand?"

The answering grin was wry and slightly dangerous. "Only as long as the beloved ' _Usta_ da Istanbul' is willing to accompany me."

"Why, I thought you'd never ask!"

The next morning they crossed the Halich, Yusuf proudly rattling off facts. "The Sultan was going to build a bridge," he said, "He hired some Italian, Leo-something-or-other for the design. I'd tell you his name but, as you know, I couldn't parse all that Italian until recently." He offered a mischievous grin.

"I could tell you his name," Ezio said with some amusement. "Leonardo da Vinci."

Yusuf blinked. "How could you know some obscure architect?"

"Perhaps because he is also a painter, an inventor, a son of Firenze and Milano, and a former designer for Cesare Borgia."

"Oh," Yusuf said awkwardly.

"And he is also my best friend," Ezio added with a flourish.

Yusuf burst out laughing. "You are full of surprises, _Usta_ da Firenze!" he said brightly. "Is there anyone else in your life that's connected to Istanbul?"

"Gaspare Gaspari," Ezio added after a moment of thought, rubbing his grey beard. "A novice at the time, I sent him here to get some maps for our files."

"Scrivener? Enthusiastic? Tanned enough to make him pass as Turkish?"

" _Sì_."

"I remember him," Yusuf said nodding. "He got into more trouble in the first six weeks than any of our orphans did. He had too much energy and not enough thought."

"He's mellowed with age," Ezio said, nodding at the memories and wincing at a few. "Having three children helps."

"Ah, congratulations! Who would put up with him?"

" _That_ is another story entirely," Ezio said with a painful wince. The courtship of Gaspare and Sancia – on the roof of their hideout, no less – still made his skin crawl. That had been _his_ roof! He did his thinking up there!

Yusuf was laughing again as they disembarked, and together they went south to the Grand Bazaar. The word “bazaar” was strange enough that he had thought it was the Turkish word for the expansive covered market; but Ezio was surprised to learn that the location was actually called Kapalicharshi, or Kapali Charshi, literally "covered bazaar". The sprawling structure was relatively new, construction having started as soon as Mehmet had conquered the city. Finished in 1460, the _sultan_ knew it as Cevahir Bedestan, "Bedestan of Gems," but the rest of the world knew it as Kapalicharshi, the Grand Bazaar. Yusuf walked Ezio through the commercial halls pointing out different markets: jewelers, gold bracelets, furniture, carpets, leather, books. Over there was where the Byzantines sold their slaves in the old days, over there was where clothing and cloth could be sold. Outside lesser goods were for sale: perishables, spices, soaps, smiths, oils, anything and everything was centralized to the Kapalicharshi.

Stalls were regulated in size, and all precious wares were hidden away in cabinets. Customers sat with merchants, haggling over tea or boxed lunches with the relative privacy of the drapes that were the gates to the stalls. Prices were set and unalterable, held by the guild and Islamic propriety, Yusuf explained, and theft was absolutely unheard of. The bazaar was locked up tighter than the _sultan's_ palace, and the merchants paid handsomely for it to be patrolled at night with guards. Topkapi Palace was just to the east, Ayasofya was similarly nearby, making it the central hub of the city; the crowds were thick and pressing, men begging to have their wares looked at, announcing theirs were the best in all the land, advertising new stock or bragging about craftmanship. It was, in a way, a self-contained world.

The lack of theft surprised Ezio.

"Oh," Yusuf said brightly, "Don't think that there isn't _theft_ , there just isn't _important_ theft. You see, the Kapalicharshi is sacred to the merchants, they guard their wares and their reputation vigorously, but if individual men coming here happen to have their pockets picked, well, that has nothing to do with _them_." To prove the point, Yusuf extended his hookblade and looped it around an impressive four purses before making them disappear in his belt. Ezio was picking his own pockets, choosing men carefully and using skills taught by Paola and Antonio in his youth. The thought was to get the attention of the Thieves Guild by encroaching on their territory – if not, the haul would help Assassin finances.

By noon prayers they had amassed an impressive amount of akche, and they counted it on a roof not far away, eyes and ears alert. Nobody came, though, and so they went back into the Kapalicharshi and its hanging drapes and rich colors and masses of men. Ezio wondered where all the women were, and was about to ask when his eagle finally drew his attention.

"There," he muttered, shouldering Yusuf.

"I see him," he whispered.

A thin, wiry man in an open vest against the summer heat, arms wrapped and a satchel hanging off a shoulder, skillfully navigated the crowds. Yusuf took the lead, following the thief back outside into the bright sun. Ezio took to the roofs with some amount of glee with his new hookblade while Yusuf stayed to the ground, the pair taking turns on the tail, Yusuf looking up and Ezio waving down, before they finally stopped northwest of the Kapalicharshi. The noise of the bazaar could still be heard on the occasional breeze, but the thief paid it no heed, subtly making his way up to the roofs and then down. Ezio watched for a while, waiting for Yusuf to join him, before pointing out the roof. "Do you know what is beyond that roofline?" he asked.

"No," Yusuf said slowly, frowning, "But there is one way to find out."

Slowly they made their way to the roofs, keeping an eye out for other thieves, but there seemed to be only one set, huddled together over a game and oblivious to the world around them.

"So much for stealth," Yusuf muttered.

"Not necessarily," Ezio countered. The pair lay flat against the roof, looking down into an enclosed courtyard. It was surrounded by tall buildings on all sides, an ideal training ground for climbing with no fear of reprisal. Carpets and pillows littered the courtyard, there was a massive cookpot, someone stirring it and steam rising from bubbly depths. Several games were being played, _hookahs_ were scattered about, many were sleeping or playing or lazing, but one man sat off to the side, deep in thought. "That's the leader," he said, "And he's in trouble."

Yusuf grinned. "Then let's see what we can do to alleviate his worries." He lifted his hood, matching Ezio, and the two climbed down so smoothly as to almost glide to the ground. Two hooded men, faces obscured by the high sun and appearing seemingly out of nowhere, brought about startled oaths and several dashing away on instinct. Not the leader, however; he looked up in mild surprise and simply stood.

"What do you want, _suikastchi_?" he asked formally.

Ezio nodded to Yusuf, and the Turkish assassin took the lead. " _Arkadeshim_ ," he said expansively, arms wide open and an easy smile on his face, "you look distracted."

"... Quite," the thief said slowly. "I have a lot on my mind. Someone in this district is funding a campaign to get us arrested."

"How so?"

A long pause, the leader gauging the pair, eyes darting all about the pair. At last he relaxed, slightly. "Well placed bribes to Ottoman guards, tipping them off to our actions. We do not want a conflict with our hosts, but we are not keen to surrender to them either. We understand the value of the Kapalicharshi, we have no intentions to rob it, but we _do_ need to make a living, and the gossip and the purses there are light and easily acquired. It is... an understanding. We _thought_ it was understood, but now things are dire."

Yusuf crossed his arms. "How many of your host have you lost?"

"Half."

Ezio asked, "Do you have an idea where this money is coming from?"

A positively feral grin was his response. "I hope to find out today. Would you care to aid me? I will make it worth your while."

Ezio shook his head. " _Usta_ Yusuf does not wish to be compensated; rather, he would like to see this as an opening salvo to a long and prosperous friendship."

Said Turkish mentor easily picked it up. " _Evet._ How can I help?" He lowered his hood and allowed the thieves to see his face.

The thief leader blinked, eyes double in size as he realized whom he was speaking to. He bowed his head. "We know that the Ottomans were paid a large bribe today. We are going to steal it. Once that happens, someone is sure to send an urgent message back to the money's source. Follow the messenger, and we will have our man."

" _Bene_ ," Ezio said, nodding. "Then let us get going."

"What is your name, _arkadashim_?" the Yusuf asked the thief.

"Hayri, _Usta_ Yusuf. I have heard many stories about you."

The three disappeared to the roofs, and Ezio saw several other thieves move in a different direction. It appeared Hayri had good control of his men; he likely signaled them somehow, and that Ezio did not pick it up was a statement of his ability. Nodding to himself, he was glad he decided to let Yusuf take the lead.

For the most part they stayed to the streets, it was an almost totally straight shot down a wide avenue that slowly narrowed and narrowed until it was little more than a tiny alley that led up a series of steps and beyond a small arch. Then they moved to the roofs where a cluster of thieves were gathered. Introductions were made, and Yusuf and Ezio crouched down to see what the thieves saw. There was a thick collection of people on a landing gossiping, atop a small stretch of stairs before it moved to another alley. Ezio's eyes picked through the crowd, but nothing spoke to him just yet.

"We need to get above them," Yusuf said.

"Agreed."

Hayri nodded and the pair of assassins moved up and slowly circled around the dead end. No sooner had they made their way to a good spot before the thieves moved in, distracting the Ottoman guards and teasing them to a healthy chase before Hayri himself moved in and looted the bribery chest they had been guarding. He gave only the faintest glance up to the roof before disappearing, and then the waiting began, the two assassins searching for someone in the crowd to break apart and run to a boss.

Yusuf pointed him out before Ezio did. "Where is _he_ going?" Ezio saw one man disappear from the throng, and together they crept along the multiple levels of roofs as the man power-walked through the streets, up an elaborate series of steps to a wide avenue before disappearing down a narrow staircase to an alley to cut through to another avenue. The power walk picked up to a light jog; under an overpass, down _another_ street, and to a closed off courtyard. From above, they watched.

"What are you doing here!" a thick-bellied, pompous man in rich finery said to the courier. "I told you to keep an eye on those soldiers!"

"Forgive me, Halim _Bey_ ," the courier said quickly, stiff and nervous, "but thieves have stolen the bribe, Allah forgive me."

"What!?" the fat man shouted. "How did they know?"

"... I am not sure."

The nobleman Halim began to pace. "If our contacts in the Ottoman ranks do not get their money, we do not keep our special relationship intact. I won't be able to keep my imperial permit to the Kapalicharshi, and I won't be able to spy on the competition. Do you have any idea what that means? I'd be thrown out of the guild if I didn't do that! How could you let this happen?"

"B-but… what could I do?" the courier asked, shifting his weight.

"Nothing, obviously," the fat lord sneered. "You're just a worm. Now get out of my face."

The nervous man was more than happy to oblige, and Halim began muttering to himself.

"It is an insult that I should pay so much to gain so little." He turned to the guards at the door of the courtyard. "Keep your eyes open for those sneaky thieves. They may be coming for us next. Perhaps my informant is not as crooked as he needs to be. We will not be using him again. What is my next move? Think, damn you, think! In the name of Allah I should move to Bursa. This city is too diverse. Too messy."

"Now's our chance," Hayri said, drawing a dagger. He had appeared in the last few minutes.

"No," Yusuf said quickly, grabbing his arm to stop him. "You can run, but your face would be spread to all the district guards, and you'd be either hung or tortured before the week is out. You said yourself you don't want to upset your hosts, so don't." He drew up his hood, omnipresent grin bleeding through his beard. "You'd do better to get those armored thugs out of sight. We'll do the deed."

"As you wish, _Usta_ Yusuf," the thief said. He paused for a moment, before adding, "Drop by tomorrow. It's time we talked."

"Agreed," Yusuf said, his eyes invisible under his hood but his smile bright and affable.

In the span of twenty minutes, Hayri had gathered a new group of thieves, and another merry chase began through the streets, away from the courtyard. The fat merchant Halim was in his house at the time, taking no notice to the loss of his precious defense. The pair of assassins swept down to the courtyard, and Ezio pounded on the door, shouting in Italian for the master of the house. In painfully thick Turkish, he glared at the startled servant: "Boss. Here. Now. Business."

The fat man and his rich silks appeared, irritated and belligerent. His gaze was so focused on Ezio and his grey beard that he never saw Yusuf at the edge of the door, and the stabbing was quick and fluid. They looted the body before disappearing, and Ezio could just hear the terrified shriek of the servant as the body was discovered.

The next morning once more found them in that carefully hidden northwest courtyard that was the Thieves' Guild. Hayri was there, and he welcomed the pair of men broadly before taking them on a tour of the buildings they occupied and the finer parts of the guild's hideout.

"You got away with the money?" Yusuf asked, his smooth voice curious.

" _Evet_ ," the leader said, "about half of it. The rest we distributed to the people. It keeps them… honest."

Yusuf and Ezio shared a look, knowing that generosity like that was a rare find and made this guild a perfect fit for the Order.

"Just make sure you do not turn into the criminals you are fighting," Ezio said quietly.

Hayri smirked, the first smile either assassin had seen. "Point taken." He looked to Yusuf. "Why don't you stick around and keep us in line?"

Yusuf grinned. "I will call on you when I need a favor. You can count on that. Come, you've been kind enough to show us one of your dens, it's only fair we show you one of ours."

The rest of the day was spent showing Hayri the lay of the Assassin world, touching lightly on philosophy and Ezio sharing stories of la Volpe's skill and mystery in Italia. Hayri mentioned working with Yusuf's predecessor, Ishak _Pasha_ , on a job or two and having heard from the old mentor of the rising star: Yusuf Tazim. The Turkish assassin was not expecting the words, and soon he captured Hayri in a tight embrace as he had done for Ezio earlier. The old grandmaster let him have his moment before politely coughing, and the two sons of Constantinopoli parted as friends.

The second week of June they departed again, this time south to the mercenary headquarters. Several of the other assassins were with them; a fight club had been announced, and several had been participating to gain contact with the fighting guild. Many had said that the leader, a burly man named Cenk, spoke of his campaigns in Italia when he was younger, and Ezio wanted to get a feel for where the man fought. It was a shame Bartolomeo was captured by the French, the man knew _everyone_ who fought under him. The thought brought the old melancholy about the grandmaster, and his mood was increasingly sour as they approached the southern port of the city.

Yusuf eyed the greying man carefully.

"Ezio," he said softly, "What troubles you?"

He shook his head. "So much death for so little gain," he said softly. "You and others laude me for my great accomplishments, but the people I have lost along the way are irreplaceable. One is not worth the other."

"We all think that, _Usta_ ," Yusuf said. "It's a part of the life we lead. It's helps, though, to think about the good times."

"Good times?"

" _Evet_ , I remember this one time," he said expansively, "It was before I was recruited. My father was killed, and my mother had joined the Romani to survive. The boys were laughing at all the girls for their terrible dancing and, since women are downright _devious_ when they plot their revenge, they took the lot of us and taught us _kochek_. And before your ask, _kochek_ is a traditional dance performed by young men. In women's clothes."

Ezio could not reconcile the image: Yusuf was in his forties, thick and sturdy, powerful, bearded, and scarred; he could not picture the man as a boy, clean skin and bony, dressed in skirts and _dancing_. Several other assassins were already laughing, having heard the story before, and soon Ezio was chuckling as the forty year old Turk mimicked some of the dance moves, revealing the grace that had not left him.

Ezio's mood was lighter when they arrived at the southernmost tip of the city. Though the vast majority of the incoming and outgoing ships were on the Halich, the Golden Horn, ports existed on the southern tip of the city as well. Ezio began to smell the sea again, and he and Yusuf and the assassins passed by a mosque that Yusuf teasingly called Kuchuk Ayasofya Camii. Ezio knew Ayasofya was the massive monument of a church – mosque? – to the east end of the city, but he was surprised to learn there was a "Little" Ayasofya. Constructed in 536 and contemporary to its "big sister," it was originally a Byzantine church. Like many of the churches, it was converted to a mosque when the Ottomans took over, and once held a runaway pope. Formerly a center of the city, now it was learning how to be a mosque, as Yusuf put it. "All the Byzantine churches will learn, over time, that they will serve better as a mosque. No offense to your Christianity, Ezio, but none of you seem to take your commandments very seriously. I'd hardly call Islam the best religion ever, but we at least hold to our teachings."

Past that were the docks, and Ezio saw a distinct change in the men who walked about. Gone were the silks and turbans and sandals, the refined airs and polite speech. Now men wore more familiar clothing: sturdy boots, leather armor, bracers. Language was coarser, more creative, and there was the constant, pitched, scraping sound of someone sharpening a blade. Yusuf's assassins greeted several burly men in friendly tones, issuing playful challenges or promises of retribution.

The fights were, literally, on the docks themselves. Everyone was stripped to the waist, warming up and bouncing on their feet in anticipation of the fight. Ezio's eyes dilated slightly, his blood starting to pump at the sounds and smells of competition. Bartolomeo held similar tournaments in his barracks, Ezio had used it to build and break recruits repeatedly – even participated on occasion to the lamentation of everyone – and he found himself wondering if he were overstepping his status as Yusuf's guest if he were to join the competition. He turned and saw Yusuf was already stripped down. "Come join me, _Usta_ da Firenze. It will be a good bout."

And that was how it started. The fighting lasted several hours and, simply put, the two mentors cleaned house. Yusuf was a grabber – even without a hookblade the Turk had the mysterious ability to always have his hands in someone's hair or on someone's wrist. The dancing he said he had done was manifest in his extreme grace and flexibility. Ezio nodded in approval as he watched. The elder mentor, however, was an absolute terror. The inexperienced fighters, and even the experienced fighters, were no match for Ezio's decades of experience. No one thought an older man would still be so strong. In proof, he wasn't. Ezio knew he wasn't as fast, as strong, or had as much endurance as the other fighters. And so he conserved his energy and made his strikes strategic, quick and brutal.

After the lunch break and noon prayers, the betting pool was enormous, and Ezio and Yusuf realized they would likely face each other in the finals. They both gave each other feral grins of anticipation.

That was when a mercenary ran up through the docks, shoving other fighters aside and making a beeline to the judge of the matches.

"Cenk! Cenk! Byzantines! We were attacked! They took your son!"

The reaction was instantaneous. "The _pichler_! The _pislikler_! I will tear off their arms and use them as clubs!" Ezio and Yusuf shared a hard look, and Yusuf signaled the brotherhood to gather. A half dozen men, the two mentors at the head, made their way through the crowd while the man Cenk, continued to curse.

"Calm, friend," Ezio said in a low but firm voice. "Anger is the enemy of caution."

The mercenary, thick dark hair standing almost on end in emotion, turned to the assassins. "Those Byzantine thugs kidnapped my son! _Orospu chocuju_! To get at me, they attack an innocent boy! There won't be enough of them left to use as _feed_ by the time I'm through with them! Those pieces of _bok_ won't even live long enough to regret what they've done! _Siktir_!"

Ezio frowned at the vulgarities and lifted a placating hand. "We can get your son back, _effendi,_ but only if we coordinate, and act carefully."

"And what would _you_ want for that?"

"Nothing," Yusuf said, stepping up. "We happen to have a... bitter rivalry with the Byzantines as well, and _that_ rivalry can sometimes get... deadly." He offered a feral grin. "And, of course, we've beaten them several times before. I think it would be good to turn this into a party."

The mercenary stared at the men before him, something piercing his initial blind rage. Seeing six hooded men standing before him, he blinked and finally realized who he was talking to. " _Evet_. Of course. If you lead, I will follow."

Cenk and four other mercenaries, plus a half dozen assassins, set out; their sheer power parted the crowds like waves as they made their way through the streets. Yusuf was already issuing orders, sending Kasim and others up to the roofs to follow and scout ahead, a young apprentice to find the Ottomans to inform them of Byzantines in their home, while the two mentors stayed with Cenk to keep him in line. The man wielded a double-bladed axe of awe-inspiring weight, swinging back and forth and cursing under his breath, describing in detail what he was going to do to the _evlilik dıshı chocuk_ that thought such cowardly tactics would work.

The haggard mercenary that had brought the bad news lead them to the site of the attack. It was a simple square, not nearly as impressive as some of the massive vistas that opened up unexpectedly in the city, but the telltale signs of the fight were still there: scarring in the cobblestones and woodwork, smears of blood that made Cenk swear more, and hints of people being dragged away. Ezio's eagle was already awake, and he followed the trail unerringly.

"What is he doing?" Cenk demanded of Yusuf. "We need to find my son!"

"Watch, _arkadashim_ ," Yusuf said, his affable grin once again gracing his beard. "Watch and be amazed."

Half an hour later, Ezio found an open courtyard with the trademark red leather of Templar armor, and he called a halt, turning to the other two leaders.

"How shall we do this?"

"We go in and slaughter them," Cenk said automatically.

"No," Yusuf said politely, "At least not all at once. A moment." Yusuf stepped out to the middle of the street and looked up to the roofline, catching the eyes of the assassins above and giving them a quick series of signals. "Our largest concern," he explained to Cenk, "Is them getting reinforcements. My men will cut off couriers and messengers if any exist, but what we really need to be aware of is that our dear friends travel in packs. If this cluster of Templars is around, then others are in this district as well."

Ten minutes later, Yusuf received a signal, and Cenk burst into the courtyard, he and his men quickly and efficiently butchering the Templars, and Ezio snuck around the fight to see to the prisoners that the targets were guarding. Several were cradling injuries, broken arms or bruised ribs, and one, very young, lay limp against the corner of the wall. The others were huddled around him, protecting him even injured as they were.

"Is he breathing?" Ezio asked, extending his blades and cutting the men free. "Does he live?"

"I cannot say," one replied. "He is as still as a corpse."

"He may yet have a pulse but... I am not trained in such things."

Ezio asked his eagle for help, noting the strong nose and jaw that marked him as the missing son. The greying grandmaster did not have the expertise of his teachers, but he had learned quick and dirty methods of doctoring when the situation called for it, and he scanned the boy quickly. An arm was broken, as was a foot, but the larger problem was his pallor, the sweat, and the lack of motion of his chest. Kneeling down, Ezio put a hand to the boy's mouth and an ear to his chest, listening over the din of the fighting. "His heart is weak," he said at last, "but he lives."

"Poison." That was Cenk. "There is no other explanation. _Siktir_ , those _evlilik dıshı chocuk_!"

"Hold," Yusuf said in a placating voice. "If it is poison, there may be a remedy."

"We will get him to a doctor," Ezio assured. "Do you know of one near here?"

" _Evet_ ," Kasim said, joining the mercenaries on the ground. "I grew up here, there's one over that way," he pointed north.

Yusuf was already signaling above him, and Kasim took point as Ezio lifted the boy up. Everyone fanned out in front of the older mentor, and Cenk held his flank as Yusuf and the mercenaries pressed forward. Twice they were assaulted by nearby Byzantines, small patrols that were shocked to find so many enemies in front of them and woefully outnumbered.

Every labored breath brought about new curses from Cenk, but even as his worry threatened to send him on a killing spree, he kept an eye on his men. Ezio sought to distract him even further. "Did you ever work in Italia?"

" _Evet_ ," Cenk said slowly, eyeing his son again. "For four years."

"Who did you work under?"

"Bartolomeo d'Alviano, a brilliant curser and excellent tactician. He had barracks in that Catholic city, Roma, and he had the most interesting people rotating in and out of his training rings, they belonged to some man who wore a hood like you people. Watched him fight once, damnedest thing I ever..." he stopped, his gaze snapping up sharply to Ezio, and his eyes widened. " _Aman Tanrim_ ," he muttered.

" _Usta_ , here!" Kasim called, pointing.

The menagerie of fighters moved up some steps under an arch to a secluded square, one tree springing up and racing the roofline to the sky. Yusuf was already there, talking to the doctor.

" _Effendi_ , this boy has been poisoned," he was saying quickly, "he and his compatriots are all injured, but the boy needs immediate help."

Ezio draped the boy on the table; his skin was positively grey, and Cenk immediately moved in to hover as the doctor tried to examine him. "Give me room," he said tersely, checking breathing, heart rate, and other things. "Standard... expected... better than I thought... that's not good... _guzel_ , I think I know what it is. I need to mix the counteragent."

"Then in the name of Allah do it quickly!" Cenk demanded.

"Father..." The boy's eyes opened to dim slits, breathing quickening as he struggled to speak. "Trap... it is a trap."

Everything stopped. "Say again?" Ezio said in a low, dreadful tone.

"The Byzantines," he said weakly, "they used me as bait. To flush you out. All of you. To kill all of you. They knew you were coming to the fights."

"Have we been followed?"

"I would not doubt it."

"We can't defend this; it's too small, too narrow. They can get us from both sides...!"

" _Enough_!" Cenk hissed at his men. "Don't tell me you're such _children_ that a bad field makes you _ishmek_ your pants. Your _comrades_ are here, are you going to abandon them now?"

Yusuf was already signaling above. "This is perfect ground, _arkadashim_ ," he said to the mercenary. "Perfect for us, that is. Have your men take positions at the arches and the base of the stairs; they'll be the front guard. They'll have to hold but not to the death; if one or two slip through, _our_ men will halt them in their tracks."

"How can they possibly-"

"Do it man, if you want your son to live in the name of Allah!" Kasim hissed, and his fervency made Cenk do as he was told.

The doctor made the counteragent quickly enough and administered it before immediately moving to the other injured. Some tried to play it off as minor wounds, but the doctor was worth his title as he treated them anyway. Yusuf paced, never able to keep still, and Ezio held guard under the tree, his ears and his eagle open, trying to sense any trouble on the wind. For two hours nothing happened, and that made Ezio nervous, because it implied a larger advance was coming. Yusuf sensed it too, as did Cenk as he hovered over his boy. Twilight was upon them when Ezio finally heard the attack.

" _Merda_ ," he cursed, snapping to attention.

Yusuf whistled, and suddenly the air was filled with the sounds of fighting. Two dozen Byzantines came from all sides, sweeping over the four mercenaries in a matter of minutes, but that was as far as they got as four assassins fell from above, hidden blades and double hidden blades ringing through the air as they landed, killing fully a quarter of the force in one swift, bloody opening salvo. Ezio and Yusuf pressed the moment of shock by adding another four to the roster, and suddenly twenty four had been shattered to fourteen in less than two minutes. The mercenaries attacked from the rear after that, and in less than five minutes Ottomans appeared and were cursing at their Templar enemies. The open courtyard was a bloody mess in the span of twenty minutes, and Cenk was giving a hasty report to the Ottomans to explain what had happened. They accepted the story whole-heartedly, glaring in distain at the bodies at their feet, and by full dark had arranged to have all the bodies carted away for burial.

An hour later, evening prayers ringing about the streets, Cenk's son started to groan, and his eyes opened.

"My boy!" Cenk cried out. "How do you feel?"

"I am fine, father," the boy said weakly, trying to wave away his kin. "Stop doting."

The mercenary openly laughed. "Well, if you think saving your life is doting, there may be hope for you yet."

"Ah," the son agreed, "I think I need to sleep now..."

Ezio leaned over. "Drink water and keep still. Agitation speeds the poison through your body. Listen to the doctor, and your recovery will be quick and complete."

* * *

Three days later Ezio and Yusuf returned to the south point and had a meeting with Cenk. His colorful language had been replaced with more polite vowels of gratitude.

" _Teshekkur ederim_ , Ezio Auditore," he said. "I owe you a great debt."

"What debt is there between friends?" he replied with Florentine irony. "If you served under Bartolomeo d'Alviano, you know the merit of the Order he served. Yusuf Tazim is of our Order, and he would like to be friends with you."

"It is an honor."

By the afternoon, Ezio has sent off assassins to gather their new allies, and Yusuf had left to get his Romani contact. Ezio left Yusuf in charge of the new council, letting the affable Turk use his own charms to ingratiate himself with the thief Hayri, the mercenary Cenk, and the mysterious Romani that Ezio had no knowledge of.

He instead sat at his desk and read through Claudia's two correspondences: general updates on the Order, news from the north, anecdotes of his niece Federica, now twenty-two, and her lover Concetto. It seemed they had gotten into yet another fight, Federica beautifully strong willed and Concetto passionate to a fault. Claudia was wondering when they would ever get married and Ezio laughed at the very thought. The pair would likely kill each other. Their zest, however, and their obvious affection for each other, touched the old grandmaster's heart.

He remembered his own passion for Cristina, and her strength of character and self-possession. She had helped him bury his family in the rain, the darkest hour in his young life, and was the kindest woman on earth. Her level head made her think of her family before running away from Firenze with him and his family. Her strong character had still loved him, even after she moved on with her life and married another. Cristina Vespucci was the love of his life, not even the Tigress Caterina Sforza could compare to the affection he held for Cristina. Her loss under the reign of Savonarola had left him speechless, lost in his grief for months as he tried to process the devastating fact that all his happiness had been ripped from the world with her death. Eight months later Monteriggioni was attacked, and _Zio_ Mario, the rock in his life after the death of his family, was also reft from him.

The Order did not replace those losses, not entirely. Oh, he had favorites, the dead Vittoria, Alighiero, Sozzi, Filippo, even the earnest Gaspare and Sancia, but they were not _family_. Not like Cristina or Mario, not like Claudia and Federica; and though he was closer than ever to those two, he would always regret the decisions he had made towards them. He had not been there in Federica's life when she was younger, nor in Claudia's, because Ulderico had felt jealous of his closeness to them, and it was not until Claudia divorced herself of him that he truly understood what he had done. His education on his sister, and indeed women in general, was painful and slow, and he regretted every moment of it. He would read the stories in Claudia's letters and just feel so _tired_. He wanted to go back to those early days, when life was simple, Cristina was with him, and his family was alive. Oh, the things he would have done differently!

But those days would never, could never, come back. And even now, so many years, so many _decades_ later, he still felt so angry. He hated the Borgia – the Templars – for what they had done to his life. Revenge had driven him for twenty years and it did not leave as quickly as it had come. He was older now, wiser; he knew the danger of revenge and no longer bowed to its impulses, but that did not prevent him from feeling the anger, the hate that came with it. He looked out on Constantinopoli, saw the dangers Yusuf was in, the advantages the Byzantines were taking, and the old rage would reassert itself.

How dare they? How _dare_ those Byzantine _bastardi_ seek to destroy what little Ezio had left in his life? How dare they plow through the city asserting their will – as Savonarola had with Cristina, as Cesare Borgia had with Mario, as Rodrigo Borgia had with his father and brothers?

And then the anger would leave just as quickly, and all he could do was sigh. Revenge was not a life to be led, but Ezio was at a loss to know what he had left to live for beyond that, because the Assassin Order was not meeting his needs. That was why he was so desperate for the wisdom of Altaïr. He quite literally had nowhere else to turn to, and he could only hope that the ancient grandmaster of old could bestow upon Ezio the secret of finding happiness in a life of service, of death, of revenge and conspiracies and intrigue and disappointment and losses and fighting and... and...

" _Usta_ da Firenze! The meeting was great! We set up a series of rotations just like you suggested and—"

Ezio looked up from his desk, eyes haunted, and Yusuf's bright tones were cut from under him.

"Ezio," he asked in a soft tone, quickly pulling a stool up to sit down. "What's wrong?"

… How could he explain it?

Rubbing his grey beard, he tried. "In two weeks I will be fifty-two years old," he said, "and when you're that old you begin to wonder if you've accomplished anything, if your gains are worth your losses, if you can ever say that you mattered in someone's life, that you made a difference."

A long pause drew out between them, Ezio lost in his thoughts and Yusuf watching him carefully.

"... _Usta_ ," he said finally. "I don't know what it is you're looking for, but know this: you _have_ made a difference here. In the span of six weeks you have completely restructured the Order, given us access to money, made connections to other guilds, and eliminated several enormous loads off my back. Six weeks! Imagine what you could get done in a year! You are an _usta_ , a grandmaster, in deed as well as title. I owe you a great debt, Ezio Auditore da Firenze, and I will spend the rest of my life paying it."

Emotion swept over Ezio, and he quickly dipped his head down to hide it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, a lot happened in one chapter! Most of the story of Revelations happens in 1512 - more than just Cappadoccia, and it will take a while for the fic to find its feet, but in the meantime we have what the two of us like the most: character interaction and development. We have the memorable recruitment of the Thief and Mercenary Guilds and a deeply meaningful pep talk on Ezio's part that will affect Yusuf's actions for the rest of the fic - which is then immediately nodded to with this last scene. We're also starting to introduce the den leaders, Dogan and Kasim, but more on them (re: Kasim) later.
> 
> Revelations is a game that deeply suffers for its game mechanics: from recruiting assassins to defending dens to recruiting guilds it paints Yusuf in a very poor light as a leader, and yet he has that important death scene that we're supposed to care about. Yusuf's development in the game is little more than a caricature (though that's a hell of a lot more than Sofia gets... more on her later) for the simple reason that the game is doing too much. The story has something of a kitchen sink mentality - we have the political intrigue of Suleiman and his uncle and father, the trials of Yusuf, the master assassin missions, the quest for the memory disks, the Altair side-story, and oh yeah, Ezio needs to fall in love with someone by the end of the game. The idea of a game being that dense is normally great, but the juggling act the writers are forced to do means that none of these stories gets the time and care necessary for any of them to develop well. The price is that many of the characters of the game flatten out because there just isn't time to craft it.
> 
> Good thing novels and novelizations can be any length we want. :P And so, as many readers have praised us for, we've taken some stark and deeply trivialized characters (re: Sofia) and did our best to turn them into real people. Yusuf gets perhaps the most development here, but even this little bit that's done fleshes him out and makes his scenes more important and more poignant, and so will it go- we hope - for the rest of the fic.
> 
> Next chapter: A certain redhead makes and appearance, and the authors notes turn into a shrill rant about the objective known as Sofia.
> 
> Muslim Lesson: There are a few holidays over the course of the Islamic calendar; the biggest and most well known of which is Ramadhan. For one month Muslims fast from dawn prayers to evening prayers to remember what it is like to be poor and/or unfortunate. Good deeds (charity) is increased as is recitation of the Qu'ran and additional prayers.
> 
> Ramadhan ends with the holiday of Eid ul Fitri which is as big as Christian Christmas in celebration. Three days long, people dress in new clothes (their Sunday best) and have something akin to a giant open house: where people go to neighbors and friends to ask forgiveness. They also give leftovers of the inevitable feast celebrating the end of fasting for a month to the poor, or clothes or money (charity). In Turkey specifically, they visit cemeteries with flowers and water to dress the graves, the Janissary band has a performance, and kids go door to door wishing happy Eid ul Fitri and get sweets in return (think Halloween without the costumes). Ezio arrives in Istanbul on the last day of Eid ul Fitri, making the city more attractive than it might normally be. :P


	4. The Polo Trading Post

The next week brought another attack on a den, and Ezio and Yusuf were forced to assume that there was a traitor in their midst, or that an assassin had survived the Little Judgment and never bothered to return. Neither were great prospects, but Ezio left Yusuf to sort through his own house to see if someone had ulterior motives and instead took his most recent escort, the eager Kasim, and began scouting the city for potential talent. Hayri and Cenk had forwarded people, two women and a man respectively, that would be better fits as assassins. One was an arrogant brawler from the fights who had taken one look at Ezio and grinned and said he was looking forward to the chance. Hayri had sent two women: one a cocky pickpocket of high skill, and the other a curious wisp of a girl who _planted_ coins in pockets. Upon questioning, she simply said she liked the challenge.

In the city, the aging grandmaster continued to familiarize himself to all the foreign sights and sounds and smells.

Prayer was five times a day: dawn, noon, mid-afternoon, dusk, and then full night; it required cleaning oneself before turning south – toward the Qiblah, Azize had once explained, where the Ka'abah in the city of Mecca was. Praying collectively increased spiritual reward, and while mosques were preferred, Islam understood that life had to happen between those five prayers, and so people often grouped together wherever they happened to be. There was no clergy as Ezio understood it; Islam did not have priests or bishops or archbishops or cardinals. They had imam – prayer leaders – that were picked from groups when time came for prayer for being particularly pious. There were Ustadhs that taught Muslim traditions to children like Azize did, and there were Sheikhs, people deeply versed in the Qur'an. It was nothing like he knew or understood; Azize had become his default tutor, a devout Muslim herself, and tried to explain all the nuances. Ezio, a son of Firenze who had at best a casual relationship with God, appreciated the dedication while simultaneously loathing the idea of being so shackled to such heavy traditions. _That_ had earned him a very severe scolding, saying that prayer was a form of meditation, meditation was a form of thought, and the Great Mentor of the Assassins surely enjoyed _thinking_. But while Ezio could understand some traditions, others remained a mystery to him.

He could not understand why women were covered from head to toe, for example, and he still found himself trying to reconcile all the different ethnicities he could see. Kasim, as escort, was eager to point out anything and everything in order to be helpful, starstruck in the presence of the great _mentore_. Unlike the strong but silent Dogan, Kasim chittered endlessly, and over time Ezio learned to tune him out.

It was on such an outing, following the north wall past a mosque and to a graveyard, that Ezio's eagle alerted him to the scent of blood. He stiffened, Kasim confused but tensing as well, and moved through the graveyard with more care. He saw the blood first, and followed it to a man struggling to crawl through the markers. Ezio darted forward to see what he could do.

The man looked up when Ezio turned him over, and his eyes flooded with desperation. "Please... Please, help. In the name of Allah, find the man who did this to me."

"No," Ezio corrected, hands pressing to examine the litany of injuries. Three ribs were broken, and ugly bruising littered his entire body. "I should get you to a doctor."

"No," the beaten man grunted, "there is no time. The man who did this, he is looking for my wife and my daughter. If he finds them Allah knows what he will do! If you value justice, _arkadashim_ , please... in the name of Allah... do not let that monster harm my family."

" _Evet, arkadashim_ , you have my word."

The man's relief was so overpowering he fainted. Standing, Ezio turned to Kasim. "Get him back to the hideout," he said, "See that the doctor Mazhar tends to him, and tell him that there may be two women added to his list."

"To the hideout, _Usta_?" Kasim asked, even as he began lifting the injured man. "Is that wise?"

"I will take responsibility," Ezio said, unwilling to explain himself with so little time. "Don't just stand there, _go_!"

Ezio did not give the overeager Kasim time to ask another question, instead backtracked the trail of blood, following it to the original site and then asking his eagle to help. A herald was there, and Ezio pushed through the people and up to the platform, heedless of the mutterings of the crowd. " _Effendi_ ," he said quickly, "I need your help." Pressing coin into the man's hand, he asked for and got a detailed description of the brutally lopsided fight that had happened in the square an hour earlier. Four men in armor, led by a fifth, had brutalized the man in order to get the location of his family, the leader explaining in lurid and graphic detail what he was going to do to the women. Everyone had watched in disgust, and of course no one had lifted a hand in aid. Furious, Ezio turned to the crowd and demanded if anyone recognized the injured man and where he lived. Several looked down or away, but one little boy raised his hand, saying the man was named Tahir, that he was always covered in rock dust, and that he lived by lots of stairs and thin arches. The mother tried to cut him off but Ezio ignored her and instead pointedly thanked the boy for his strong moral character and adherence to the faith and darted to the stairs the boy had pointed to.

Powering down them, eagle open, Ezio came upon the five circling around two women. The leader had one of the women, presumably the mother, pinned to the ground, legs bare as her silks had been shoved up and _hijab_ ripped away. The daughter was shrieking at the top of her lungs from behind a fist that was covering her mouth. The old grandmaster has seen this scene played out too often in his life – once to his own _sister –_ to not react instantaneously.

With an expert flick of a wrist he threw a knife at the back of the leader. It of course hit its mark; the startled cry confused everyone, giving Ezio enough time to throw one of Yusuf's special bombs, a thick cloud of smoke erupting out from where it landed. His eagle was already awake, however, and in less than two minutes he had used his hidden blade to kill all five men, sweep the crying girl into his arms (even though she punched and hit him repeatedly), and help the nearly catatonic mother to her feet. They were gone long before the smoke had dispersed.

It took over an hour to get the women to the hideout along the north wall. The mother slowly came to her senses, but the daughter was inconsolable, constantly struggling and refusing to believe Ezio when he said he was taking them to her father. It was not until they were at the abandoned mosque and down in the underground cistern that she finally began to realize something different was happening.

Mazhar was in his tiny room, bent over the beaten man, Tahir. The mother and daughter both burst into tears and ran to him, and their voices roused him to consciousness, and he, too, wept to see them safe. Kasim watched in open curiosity as Ezio slowly made his presence known in the private moment. "It is done," he said softly. "They are all dead. How are you feeling?"

"My wounds will heal, the doctor said," Tahir said, "and my heart is lifted knowing that my family is safe, Allah reward your goodness. How can I repay you?"

"Join us when you are feeling well, brother. We could use men with a sense of honor."

" _Evet_ , I will. Most certainly."

" _Bene_. I will see that your family is relocated somewhere safe, and when you are fit to move you may rejoin them. After that, come to the Galata Tower at dawn. Someone will be waiting for you."

" _Evet, usta_ , whatever you say. Allah reward your goodness."

* * *

Ezio's birthday was spent with a bottle of wine at the top of the Galata Tower. Yusuf had offered to throw a party in his honor, but he just couldn't bring himself to feel like celebrating a life filled with regrets. The Turkish master assassin nodded, understanding, and let Ezio have his space – though not before offering a hookah if he wanted even "deeper" meditation. Ezio poked at the instrument for all of a minute before deciding he didn't have the energy to try and figure out how to use it and instead just looked out over the city, drinking and composing a letter to his sister.

_Claudia,_

_Constantinopoli – called Istanbul by the Turks – has welcomed me as one of its own. The Assassins here, led by an affable fighter named Yusuf, take great pride in their city, a place as diverse and colorful as one could imagine. He has spent much time showing me the sights of the city, and it is a place like no other. I cannot keep track of the different men and women from both the east and the west who congregate here. Turkish and Greek seem to be the most common languages, but I have heard Italian, Arabic, and many others as well. Color is everywhere, as is texture and pattern, and every alley and corner seems to open up to some new auspice of the city._

_But it is a troubled city, too. A rebellious faction of Byzantine Templars still fights to retain influence, and their recent attacks have delayed my search for the Masyaf Keys. If you recall, two years ago the city suffered a devastating earthquake, and Yusuf and his Assassins have yet to fully recover from it. The Templars have taken advantage of this opportunity, and various dens and hostels of the Order have been attacked. There may even be a traitor in our midst, and Yusuf is using all of his skills to rout out the truth._

_I have been taking the time to instruct him on how to better manage his men and women, and he has taken it all with a smile – a testament to his affable character. He is stubborn, but not so set in his ways that he will deny sound advice when he hears it, unlike Niccolò Machiavelli. It is aiding our brothers that has delayed my letters to you, and for that I am sorry._

_But this will not last. As soon as I am able, I will begin looking for Niccolò Polo's former trading post, in search of clues that will bring me nearer to the Masyaf keys. Yusuf has several contacts at the city's university, and I hope in a week's time I will go there and look at their old maps and city plans. I worry that much knowledge was lost in the fall of Constantinopoli, but I will stay here as long as it takes until I can find those keys, and with them, the wisdom of Altaïr._

_Perhaps then, at last, I can find the answers I seek._

He continued on to comment on her own missives, and described what he had been doing in the city and trying to put to paper the brilliant view he was currently looking out over. His letters to his sister helped, it narrowed his focus and made it easier to articulate the complicated mess of emotions he felt of late, and though he often mourned the poor quality of his letters, he hoped something of what he wanted came across to her. Signing off with his regards, he gave one last look at the glorious sunset.

The next day he was with the eager Kasim on a tour of the southern half of the city.

Ezio wanted to see each of the dens for himself; he was not technically involved with figuring out why the Byzantines knew two den locations, but he couldn't let something as serious as a possible traitor go, either.

The southern den was under a massive watchtower, posing as a spice merchant. Kasim was quick to announce who Ezio was, and the entire den soon swarmed him. He leveled a flat glare to Kasim, oblivious, and greeted the eager novices and apprentices and journeyman. All too quickly he was asked to recount various exploits in lurid detail, and he was not in the mood to relive the fall of Monteriggioni, or the disturbing death of Cesare Borgia. He politely declined one after another, and soon they left to their own tasks, but not before one journeyman looked at him and said, simply.

"I wish to thank you personally, _Usta_ , for your work in Spain."

He blinked, mildly surprised, and asked what she meant.

"My grandparents were born here, _Usta_ , but my parents were from Spain. When I was a baby they were captured for being Moors, Muslims, because of the Inquisition. There were many others in that prison, and many of them were tortured, trying to learn something my parents didn't understand. But they were rescued by men in white hoods. A year later, Isabella cast us out, and the Ottomans took us in. A woman in a white hood sailed with us, and said we had Ezio Auditore to thank for it. They didn't understand, _I_ didn't understand, not until I was recruited. I have always wondered if I would meet you, but now I have, and I want you to know that I'm alive because of you."

Ezio blinked, surprised still, and at a loss for words.

Finally, he asked, "What is your name?"

"Meryem," she said, smiling through her dark curls. "I have been with the order for ten years now, am a senior journeyman, and hope to make _suikastchi_ in the next year."

By the end of the week Kasim's irritating chitter had been replaced by Meryem. The overeager escort was greatly disappointed, but Meryem proved to be much better. Ezio learned that her secondary trade was weaving, that both her parents had died in the Little Judgment, and that she took some small amount of pride in her skills at stealth. She also, over time, expressed a concern about the goings on around her den.

" _Merhaba_ , _Usta_ ," she greeted one morning. "We are to wander the city again, yes? In all your wanderings, have you heard the name Lysistrata?"

Ezio frowned, reaching back to his boyhood days when he studied the classics. "The drama by Aristophanes?" he asked.

Meryem smiled, running a hand through her dark curls. "Not quite. She is a local actress named for the character in that play."

"Then, I have not."

She frowned. "Will you walk with me? We have a small problem."

She took the lead for once, and instead of randomly walking about the city to soak in the surroundings, she took him on a more deliberate route, mostly on the streets showing a keen knowledge of back alleys, cut-throughs, and narrow steps that finally led to a massive square with an elaborate fountain in the middle. Her dark curls cascading over her shoulders, she explained. "We have been hearing rumors for some time now that paint Lysistrata in a very dangerous light. We fear she is responsible for the disappearance of several eminent men throughout the empire. A black widow, if you will."

"But you have no proof?" Ezio asked.

"Not yet," Meryem said, shaking her head. "Her supporters say it is only coincidence, and some of the men who have disappeared only barely knew her, but if it _is_ coincidence, the probability of it is staggering. But today, we may have proof. She should be here soon, a meeting with a fan of hers. That fan has many political enemies, and I want to follow her, if you are of a mind to do so."

"Agreed," Ezio said.

For an hour they loitered about the square, eyes open. In one sweep her lustrous hair was covered in silk and the bracer of her hidden blade hidden under a silken sleeve. Meryem seemed to be moderately known in the area, several women nodded to her through their _hijab_ and asked how she was doing. Many asked if Ezio was a new husband, but she waved it off, saying that the man looking after her was becoming quite protective of her, and Ezio was her escort. More than a few asked when her marriage would be arranged, and she played it off, even in spite of protests that her marriageable age would wane soon. Ezio, the silent "bodyguard," marveled at her skill to turn conversations around, and the art of the story she had constructed around herself. He had to remind himself she was still just a journeyman, and he wondered what was left for her to learn before her finger was burned. He was about to ask when she straightened.

"There she is," she said softly.

Ezio turned to see a woman in Greek clothes, beautiful and also with dark hair, walking hand in hand with a man in a plain turban and dress.

"He's disguised himself," Meryem muttered, "But he's affiliated with the Sublime Porte. I will tail her from the street. You take the rooftops. Take note of anything suspicious. I want to see what happens, Allah willing."

" _Bene_."

Slowly, Ezio moved up to the roofs while Meryem followed from below. With a bird's eye view, he could see that her pride in her stealth should be more that small. She changed from a Muslim woman to Greek in the span of five steps, rearranging her silks and changing her gate. Ten minutes later she changed back to a Moor, and then astonishingly managed to pull of passing as a man by taking her _hijab_ and twisting it into a turban, straightening her hips and hunching her shoulders slightly. The girl was positively _gifted_ , and Ezio made a mental note to speak to Yusuf about her skill when he was done routing the traitor. She needed to be promoted and soon, she had a wealth of skill to pass on and she could easily infiltrate tightly guarded locations with ease.

The tailing job itself was moderately straightforward. They slowly made their way around an impressive hippodrome, an ancient Roman structure; it had at first surprised Ezio to see such familiar Roman ruins, and he suddenly had a very real example of how far the ancient Roman empire had extended. The woman Lysistrata continued to hold her beau's hand, and Meryem kept a healthy distance while Ezio hopped from roof to roof. Lysistrata walked the old horse track, now thick and overgrown, and slowly moved to the curve. Ezio moved up to the seats, watching from several levels up, and at a glance he saw that Meryem had done something similar from the opposite side. He worked his way through bushes and overgrowth. The curve's center held a many-story arch that opened up to yet another vista of the city, but Ezio's eyes only glanced that way before looking down to see the woman in Greek clothes stab her fan, watching with cold eyes as he fell with a gurgle.

"Not today!" Meryem shouted, leaping down from a three story height and adjusting her angle to air assassinate the black widow.

Lysistrata threw a smoke bomb, however, when she heard the oath and disappeared in its smoke.

The smoke cleared with Meryem by herself over the corpse, her dark hair swishing back and forth as she tried to find her target. Ezio fell down from above, already opening his eagle. "We can find her if we hurry," he said. "Follow me."

"But how...?"

Ezio was already pressing ahead, however, the eagle in his mind seeing scuff marks of sandals, or the drip of blood from a blade, and catching a whiff of perfume to follow. Meryem was close behind, eyes slightly wild and her hands worrying in anxiety. The pair angled around the upper levels of the hippodrome, alert for anything, and finding a hidden alcove. Ezio surmised this was where she could change clothes and disappear, but rather instead, they found a collection of corpses, the cadavers strewn about in a brutal show of savagery. The scent of perfume hung in the air under the smell of blood and death, and it was obvious who had done this.

Meryem was beside herself. "These are members of his staff," she said, kneeling down and checking the bodies. "All his supporters... This is all my fault... Allah forgive me..." She looked up, dark eyes wide and distressed, nearly panicked. She dashed away from the bloodshed, and Ezio heard the sounds of sickness as the failure swept over her. The old mentor had felt such failures before: the Doge of Venezia, his near demise at the ruins outside San Gimignano, his inability to get his beloved Cristina to a doctor. The loss once more stung at his heart, and he rubbed his hand over his face, tugging at his beard and sighing deep into his depression before he pulled himself together and went to console the devastated journeyman.

"Forgive me, _Usta_ ," she said through her upset. "I attacked too soon, with too much distance between us. I did not calculate correctly and... I should not have shouted out and... I should have stopped that witch... I..."

Ezio placed a hand on her small shoulder. "To live is to learn," he said slowly. "My greatest lessons were born of my greatest failures. Take this lesson to heart, and clear your mind. You will have another chance."

Gently, he pulled her to her feet, and he walked her back to the den.

* * *

The first week of May had Ezio visiting the University to begin his search for Niccolò Polo's old trading post. Yusuf's contact took him through stacks and stacks of books and ancient tomes with great pride. When Ezio mentioned wondering if the famous Polo brothers had ever owned property in the city, there was a distinct gleam of curiosity and challenge in the scholar's eyes and he announced that Ezio would know by the end of the month. Ezio smiled at the eagerness and knew that he would certainly find out soon. One who valued knowledge always loved such a challenge. While the scholar was a contact of Yusuf's, Ezio arranged that he would drop by weekly to learn if anything had been discovered. With Yusuf's hold on Constantinopoli still tenuous, it was better to not expose the scholar to such risks.

With that project in the works and properly delegated, Ezio had the time to start doing some more one-on-one training. Meryem he took to slate and chalk to learn all the calculations that Mario had taught him on speed, distance, and how to angle falls. That had been her primary mistake. She was so careful to keep a distance to not be seen that she wasn't close enough to act when it was needed. While she was with chalk and slate, Dogan was sitting with books, learning more about management and financing, having shown an interest in how Ezio did hidden accounts. Azize, who was secretary of the Assassins and dedicated to all the small details that any organization needed, was pulled from her ink and paper and given regular instructions on how to fight so that she wouldn't get rusty.

It was with this one-on-one instruction that Ezio started to excel as he had with his brotherhood in Roma. He had shining stars of various kinds that he was starting to polish. Meryem would be a full Assassin in a few months' time, sooner than she was expecting, and he was hoping to put her in charge of a den so that she could use her plentiful skill at blending into the environment to better usage. Dogan he also put in charge of a den, specifically the one in Galata so that he was still close enough to be Yusuf's second but was able to start practicing and learning leadership on his own.

In between his lessons, he still walked the streets with an Assassin to keep learning the city and to see what he could learn about who the possible traitor was. It was on such a walk that Ezio paused along the docks of the Halich, looking to a cage holding criminals waiting for transport across the river to the next location of the justice system. Likely another cage before being transported out of the city to the sentencing.

Something had caught his attention and he wasn't sure what it was. Beside him was Sila, a recently promoted Assassin, whose speed had yet to be bested by any in the order. Like Dogan, she was soft-spoken, but where Dogan stayed quiet with curiosity, Sila was quiet in almost timidity. She always demurred, refused to take credit, and almost stubbornly said she still wasn't good enough and that there were others better than her. Her lack of faith in herself was absolute until one challenged her to any sort of race. Then, she knew how good she was and had no problem leaving one in the dust. However, she was very adept at the languages of Constantinopoli, and was one of the best at pointing out interesting conversations that Ezio didn't quite follow in Greek or some Egyptian dialect he didn't understand.

Ezio did what he could to give her more confidence. She reminded him of Elda, the former nun who had joined the Order and was often uncertain. But where Elda stumbled, Sila had steady competency, she just didn't see it. Ezio wondered what in her childhood had predisposed her to always overlook her own value, but knew it wasn't in his place to pry.

She was confused on why Ezio had randomly stopped and was looking at a cage of prisoners, but she didn't have the confidence to ask. Ezio stared, wondering what had caught his attention, leaning against a wall and looking tired for any who passed by. Sila stayed politely by his side, her face completely covered in the Muslim manner that Ezio found so strange. He kept his attention on that cage. There were some Ottoman guards patrolling the area, a few standing guard over the cages, but nothing that should have caught his attention. His eyes still roved around, trying to see what was so special about the prisoners in that cage, when his ears finally picked up what he needed.

The accent was incredibly thick, and Greek, which is why Ezio could only pick out every other word with any certainty. But he _did_ understand enough to understand that one of the prisoners was not a truly bad person.

" _Lütfen, efendim_ ," the Greek man begged in his thick accent. "I stole fruit, I do not deny it. But only because my hunger was stronger than my honesty. I will return to that vendor twice what I have taken, just please, let me try!"

"Quiet, dog," the guard barked back.

Ezio turned to Sila. "We need to find that key."

"Your pardon, _Usta_?" she replied, blinking in confusion.

Clearly she had not heard what Ezio had, so he softly explained that he was planning to free the prisoner.

"Are your certain?" she asked.

"Completely. That man will be an asset to our cause."

Sila still looked unconvinced, but disappeared into the crowds to find the captain and lift the key. Ezio stayed where he was for the moment, then casually strode forward toward the cages.

"What do you want?" the Ottoman growled, eying Ezio's sword.

"To speak with one of the prisoners," Ezio replied, thickening his own accent. "I think one might have stolen from me."

The guard was still suspicious, and glancing between Ezio and the prisoners, but Ezio kept a serious frown and glared at the cage.

Finally, the Ottoman nodded and held out a hand. "There will be no weapons near the prisoners," he said clearly. "We wouldn't want one of them to steal it and stab you."

Ezio nodded approvingly, and handed over his sword. He kept his hidden blade, hookblade, a stiletto hidden in his boot, and many hidden throwing knives tucked away in his belt. Still, he watched where the Ottoman put his sword and made sure the Ottoman _knew_ that Ezio knew where his sword was, so that it wouldn't get "accidentally" lost. While the guard seemed more honest than the Byzantines, anyone who worked with steel would see the quality of the sword of Altaïr, so Ezio made it clear that the sword was _his_ and his alone.

Ezio stepped to the cages, specifically to the curly hair of the Greek man who had begged the chance to make up the wrong he had done.

"Do you speak truthfully about repaying your lapse in honesty?" he asked the man, "or are you trying to simply free yourself?"

The Greek clearly was not expecting anyone to come along. He nodded soberly. " _Evet, efendim_ ," he replied, speaking slowly with his accent. "My employer disappeared three weeks ago and everything has fallen apart since. None will hire me or any of his other workers, none have found his wife or daughter, it is said he made enemies and that they made him disappear." The man sighed, shaking his head. "For three weeks I've had nothing and been trying to get another mason to hire me. But my employer hangs over me like a curse, none will have one who worked for the missing Tahir."

Ezio blinked. "Tahir?"

" _Vai,_ " the man replied. "Please, _efendim_ , do you know him?"

"Did you work in the Galata district?"

" _Vai_ ," the man nodded, hope starting to well into his eyes. "Is he dispatched, as I have heard? Are we cursed?"

Ezio gave a soft smile and shook his head. "Tahir is healing. He and his family are hiding. We need men of honor, and he has agreed to join us."

The man didn't question who "us" was. "Then I will join as well, _arkadashim_."

"Once you have cleared your conscience," Ezio replied. "To be an honest man, one needs honest work."

"I would be honored," the Greek bowed. " _Sagolun._ I am Kadmus."

They continued to talk quietly, Ezio learning that Kadmus and Tahir were both masons and that they had done smaller jobs and projects, but with honesty and fairness that was starting to get them known when competitors started circling. It was why Tahir had been attacked, which as a massive breech of guild law. Ezio could only shake his head. He also made a mental note to see how Tahir was doing under Mazhar's care and to offer a job to him on rebuilding the damage that the cisterns had taken from the Little Judgment. But that was a discussion for later.

It was an hour later when Sila arrived, sliding easily up to Ezio and handing him the key before the Ezio theatrically started to pull her aside, saying clearly that such ruffians would not be so God-fearing as to lower their gaze to such a gentle soul. The Ottoman nodded approvingly as Ezio politely asked him to watch over his charge and prevent such ugliness of lusting over her lovely being. Sila gave the barest of nods and started to speak softly, getting the Ottoman's attention. She was her usual quiet competent self as Ezio unlocked the cage and let out Kadmus. The others started to push forward when they realized that Kadmus had been released, but Ezio shut the door firmly and silently, re-locking it. He could only help one. He couldn't help all. Another twist of a key and Kadmus was free of his chains.

"Can you swim?" Ezio asked quietly, glancing back to Sila who was still in quiet conversation with the Ottoman.

"I'm Greek," Kadmus replied with a broad smile. "We were sailing before you Romans even knew fire."

Ezio chuckled and helped the mason silently enter the water. "There is a dock further down where we'll pick you up."

"I'll watch for your hood," Kadmus replied.

Ezio returned to the Ottoman and Sila automatically went silent, stepping back to let him take charge. Ezio reclaimed his sword and offered a small bag of money.

"You have been more than patient, _efendim_ ," he said. "The man was not my thief, but I think he has learned his lesson well."

The Ottoman merely nodded, and kept his eyes sweeping the busy thoroughfare of the docks.

Ezio regretted that such a diligent guard would likely get in trouble for this, but there was nothing he could do about it in that moment; so he and Sila took off into the city, taking a longer path through side streets until they came further down the docks and Ezio started to wander the stands. He kept himself visible, and easily spotted, but not standing out as he perused various fish stands, comparing freshness, size, types, etc. The prices were all comparable, something Ezio still had to get used to compared to the competition of Italia, but he was paying more attention to the people around him than actually thinking of what fish to buy.

At last, in the corner of his mind, his inner eagle screeched, and Ezio and Sila moved away from the stands to a dock where a small rowboat was just being tied up. There, bare-chested and looking as tan as a dockworker, was Kadmus.

Ezio and Sila stepped into the rowboat. "Let's be on our way."

Kadmus was thrilled to meet Tahir back at the hideout, and when Ezio explained how good masons were needed in the tunnels of the cisterns that could be trusted, they were eager to help. Tahir was quickly barking orders to Kadmus in Greek that Ezio couldn't understand, but within the week, Kadmus was bringing workers down into the cisterns and Tahir was stiffly walking along to shout out orders on how to start setting the stones, where to get the stones, and how to get it all square.

"We are setting the very foundation of the city! It must be perfect!"

Yusuf also set about seeing Kadmus and Tahir's training when they weren't working with stone. Kadmus was getting the basics of fighting and Tahir, with his injuries still healing, was learning about the mixing of poisons and bombs. It turned out Tahir was quite adept in the bomb making, as his work with stone often could use explosive powder to clear away or more precisely cut stones.

July dawned with another Islamic holiday: Eid al-Adha; for four days Muslim families celebrated Abraham's faith and willingness to sacrifice his son Ishmael – Ibrahim and Ismail respectively by the Qu'ran's spelling – and the ram that Allah bestowed on them in return. Beef and goat meat was the staple over those four days, and leftovers were given to the beggars under the shadow of Galata's massive tower.

July was settling in to be warm and muggy, and Ezio was very glad that most of the headquarters was underground and with ready access to cool water. It wasn't all that different from summer in Roma. He made sure to keep a water-skin with him as he moved about the city, and kept lighter armor to avoid overheating. The scholar at the university still hadn't found out anything about the Polo brothers in the city, but he had no problem delineating all sorts of historical finds that no one had known about before. Ezio smiled and nodded, and asked him to keep looking for the Polo brothers. "After all, an Italian like myself would like to know of a fellow countryman in the city, even centuries ago."

The scholar's eyes glittered with excitement and went back to his books.

One afternoon, as a heavy thunderstorm was passing over the city, Yusuf and Ezio were discussing how some of the novices were doing when word came that Dogan wished to see them.

Yusuf frowned. "I'm off to meet with Cenk this afternoon. We've already rescheduled for security reasons twice. I don't wish to put him off again."

"I will go," Ezio offered.

The apprentice took him through the soaked streets and under the sheets of rain, apologizing that the esteemed _Italya'nin usta_ had to get so drenched. Ezio shrugged it off. He'd had to go swimming in _Venezia_ once, this was a picnic in comparison.

Thunder still rumbled overhead when they arrived at an unsuspecting carpet dealer. The Assassin at the counter was the one who offered this type of front, and Ezio nodded to him.

"Ah," the Assassin said in full merchant mode. "You, _efendim_ , will be looking to my finest wares. Come to my back room, I'll show you and only you the best I have to offer."

In the back room, a hidden trap door was lifted, and Ezio was down into the storage room, where Assassin banners hung and Dogan was pouring over a map at a desk.

" _Usta_ ," he greeted.

"Dogan."

The apprentice that had guided Ezio was sent back up to the shops and Ezio pulled off his hood to wring out all the water and shake the worst of the rain out of his hair.

"We have a problem," Dogan quietly explained, pointing to his map where many marks were made. "A great many _Suikastchi_ for our den have started to disappear and I believe I know why."

"Disappeared?" Ezio frowned heavily. "Do you mean they have been killed?"

"I fear so," Dogan nodded. Ezio looked to the map, noted seven red marks. "How many _Suikastchi_ do you have left in this den?"

"Eight, including myself and Egemen upstairs."

Ezio muttered several swears in several languages.

"One of my journeymen sent word he has found something. He is to meet me in a square west of here an hour after sundown."

Having sparred with Dogan, Ezio knew that he was a better fighter than Yusuf's lieutenant. "I'll be coming with you."

"I was hoping you or _Usta_ Yusuf would."

"I'll be on the roofs," Ezio said. "Do you have a hidden way up to them?"

Dogan blinked. "Will you be safe up there in this weather?"

"Finding this murderer is more important."

Dogan shook his head and refocused. " _Evet, Usta_ ," he said. "Let's be on our way."

They stayed a moment longer for Ezio to get a description of the journeyman they were looking for and getting a small bite to eat before what could be a long night ahead of them.

Ezio stayed to the roofs, moving on silent feet, and careful with the slickness of the earlier rain. Thankfully the storms had passed, leaving only mud and puddles in its wake, and the moon was shining brightly.

The square was along the western edges of Galata, close to the old Constantinian wall. A fountain was in the center of a mosaic pattern in the square. A few trees decorated the square, overlooking the Halich. Ezio had arrived ahead of Dogan and was lying flat on the roofs to look around to the torchlight below. Unfortunately, torch light was not as good as moonlight and the areas hidden in the moon's shadow were difficult to see clearly, even with Ezio's sharp eyes.

Stiffening, Ezio watched a pair of Byzantines walk through the moonlight, unhindered. _Merda_ , that wasn't good. Where was the journeyman? Ezio's eyes raked the square again, but could see no sign of anyone else. Even his Eagle sense could not see the bright aura of an ally – not until Dogan strode powerfully through an alley and used his hidden blades to kill the pair of Byzantines from before and then darting to a haycart.

Something wasn't right. Something was _wrong_. And then Ezio's eagle screeched in his mind and he looked to the roofs. Three Byzantines had appeared, plain as day in the moonlight, each with a rifle and with eyes roaming the square as Ezio had.

Well this just wouldn't do.

With a growl, Ezio started to creep along the rooflines. The first was easy to fell with his hidden blade and then drag behind a shadowed section of the roof. The second was on a higher roof and Ezio had to go slowly around to the back side of the building that wasn't overlooking the square to climb up and then run up from behind in order to not be seen as the Templar scanned the square.

The third was the hardest to approach, hidden on some scaffolding, but not at the top. Ezio dropped one of the corpses of the previous Byzantines, and the last swiftly went to investigate. A throwing knife quickly dispatched him, and Ezio cautiously stalked along the perimeter of the square, trying to find any other Byzantines, his eagle awake and active.

Ezio gave a whistle and climbed down. Dogan left his haycart, meeting Ezio by the fountain and see what was wrong.

"Sharpen your senses," Ezio whispered, his eyes constantly moving about the square. "There is a danger here I do not fully understand."

"I saw the Byzantines from the hay," Dogan nodded. "I worry for my journeyman. He is skilled at observation and stealth, but I've been working with him on fighting. He is not-"

Ezio cut him off as he walked into the deeper shadows he couldn't see through before. On the ground, with a better angle, he saw a shadowed figure sitting oddly on a bench, both arms splayed to the right and leaning over so much as to almost be bent in half.

" _Sikme_ ," Dogan swore viciously. "My journeyman," he said, lifting the skewed turban. "He was working in one of the _Sultan's_ bureaucracies and he said he had found something interesting."

Dogan's words were filed away in Ezio's mind as he looked at the placement and positioning. It was far too familiar. "I don't like the look of this," he said softly, remembering when _he'd_ learned how to kill from a bench.

Dogan nodded beside him. "We have lost another Assassin here. My journeyman thought that the murderer wouldn't dare kill in the same place twice."

"And now he has."

Ezio's eagle screeched loudly in the echoes of his mind and Ezio whirled around, eyes automatically looking up to the roofs where a man in a white hood was dropping on an Ottoman guard who was investigating the dead Byzantine Ezio had hidden on the roofs.

The Ottoman didn't even have the chance to scream before the hooded man was diving off the roofs into the haycart Dogan had used earlier and taking off down the streets.

"Follow that man!" Ezio shouted, taking of like an arrow.

Dogan was already heading to the roofs and Ezio went under a building and up stairs after the killer "Only a guilty man runs with such speed!" he bellowed, making the few heads out after nighttime prayers turn to look at the chase.

Good. Someone would get the Ottomans.

"And only a fool stops to fight!" the killer shouted back. But the taunt was a mistake. It allowed Dogan to catch up on the roofs and leap down in a perfect arc to kill the killer.

Unfortunately, the killer was too swift. He dodged gracefully to the side and darted ahead, giving an odd warbling whistle. From the alleys came four Byzantines, all with pikes.

" _Bok_!" Dogan swore vehemently, then coughed as the killer turned, smiled at them in the moonlight, and dropped a smoke bomb, giving him time to escape.

The fight was difficult. The pikes gave the Byzantines a much longer reach and Dogan had clearly never faced someone with such weapons before. The massive, quiet Assassin did a credible job of defending himself, never letting any of the pikes getting too close, and staying out of range, but he couldn't go on the offensive. Ezio, who had crisscrossed all of Italia after the French had invaded to get to Napoli, knew how to fight pikemen. He fought barehanded, a seemingly suicidal move, and used his bracers to great effect in keeping him safe. Finally he got a moment's breathing room and picked up a handful of mud from the afternoon's storm which went straight to the face of the advancing Byzantine. With the Templar stopped, Ezio easily grabbed the pike and used it to slice the muddy Templar's neck before pivoting to divert the pike of another Byzantine. With the proper weapon, Ezio made swift work of the remaining three, but all that work was meaningless. The killer had escaped.

Ezio let out a heavy sigh.

"Are you injured?" he asked Dogan, dropping the pike and attempting to brush the mud from his hands.

"My pride has been wounded," Dogan said softly, "and now my heart is heavy. That man, his name is Vali. He was a _suikastchi_ once. We thought him dead in the earthquake."

"He survived."

Dogan looked up to the sky and gave a small nod. "He was a friend. We were trained together. He was always a rank higher than me. He was friendly, which surprised me for a noble."

They started to walk back to the den. "A noble?"

" _Evet_ , of Wallachia. He wasn't happy with the Ottomans for conquering his home, but he rarely said anything about it."

They walked in silence for a moment, letting Dogan's grief settle.

"He has obvious skill," Ezio observed. That made sense if he was always a rank above Dogan and had now been spending his time in constant battle killing the Assassins of Galata. "And a score to settle."

" _Evet_ ," Dogan replied sadly. "He is most likely how the Byzantines know where all our dens are and can attack them so regularly."

"Then we'll need to move them. These murders in Galata have been random, yes? Likely because he can't find the den and get everyone at once." Ezio kept his observations clinical, in respect of Dogan's tumultuous feelings.

" _Guzel_. It will be a lot of work and a lot of money, but it needs to be done."

"At least now we can report to Yusuf some solid facts."

Dogan let out a heavy sigh. "At such a cost."

Ezio reached out and put a hand on the large Assassin's shoulder. That was all he could do. Such betrayal needed time.

Finally, as they approached the den, Dogan straightened. "Until that man is caught or killed, I fear none of us will be safe in this city."

Ezio recognized that spark. The desire for revenge that could so easily lead to foolishness as it had for him in his youth. "And until _you_ are properly trained, I will not let you go head-to-head with a killer as deadly as this man," he said firmly, his eyes locked onto Dogan and the weight of his title of Mentor settling heavily around them. "Let us focus on further honing your skills first."

Dogan bowed low. " _Elbette_."

Yusuf and the other Assassins did not take news of Vali's betrayal well. He had been a respected and rising star of the Brotherhood and they were shocked to learn that he was now working with Templars to hunt them all down.

"But... _why_?" Yusuf asked, slack-jawed. "I don't understand, _why_?"

Ezio sadly shook his head. "We may never know."

After the initial shock, all Assassins across the city entered into a flurry of activity, abandoning old dens and setting up new ones. The accounts that Ezio had been so carefully cultivating were swiftly drained in the purchases of new buildings and Tahir and Kadmus soon had other projects along with repairing the cisterns. They were also customizing all the buildings for Assassin purposes.

Word also reached them of a rebellion going on in the middle of the battle for succession. Ezio, who wasn't aware of much of the background, ended up asking a lot of questions to try and clarify what was going on. It seemed when the battle of succession had started, a brother of both Selim and Ahmet, Korkut, was traveling to live closer to the capital when the bandit Shakulu raided his caravan and robbed the royal treasury. Korkut was, thankfully, unharmed, and remaining clearly neutral in the argument between his two brothers over succession. But the effrontery of someone robbing a royal treasury was unheard of.

Emboldened by his success, Shakulu started to attack towns and kill government officers. The Ottomans didn't care for that at all, and sent an army after him. But, to everyone's shock, Shakulu beat the beylerbey and executed him. People started to flock to Shakulu, but the Ottomans didn't care for this in the slightest and sent a _second_ army after him, this one commanded by Shehzade Ahmet, the prince himself, and Hadim Ali _Pasha_ , a grand vizier.

The army cornered Shakulu, finally, but instead of fighting, Shehzade Ahmet instead spent his time trying to convince the Janissaries to support him in his eventual bid for the throne. When he couldn't convince them he simply left the battlefield. With his troops. Naturally Shakulu escaped, leaving Ali _Pasha_ and his much smaller force to chase him. There was a harsh and brutal battle right at the beginning of July. Word had arrived that it was a draw, with both Ali _Pasha_ and Shakulu being killed.

"One less thing to worry about," Yusuf said, sipping his goat's milk that night. "Though I wonder why Ahmet spent his time with the Janissaries. That was a perfect chance for him to show prowess in battle."

Ezio nodded, sitting back with his glass of wine. His mind pondered the battle of two brothers over the right to succeed their father and the politics behind it. Then he shook his head. This wasn't his place to go poking around.

The following day word was sent that the university scholar had found something. So Ezio had left with Azize, in an attempt to get her away from her maps for a day. She definitely appreciated visiting the university and was quickly looking through ancient maps and smiling like a child as she studied what the old city had looked like hundreds of years ago. The scholar soon arrived, wearing a similar smile of triumph as he gently pulled out books with silk-gloved hands and pointed to the relevant entries he'd come across.

"It's fascinating! There are records showing when they first came through here and it indicates that while they were here for a year setting up a trading post, they didn't pay much attention to anything other than trade. _But_ , on their _return_! It's amazing! Two brothers filled with wanderlust chose to settle down here and spent the next few years being active members of the community. Their trading post has records of Greek, Turkish, Jewish, Albanian _and_ Italian employees. No merchant in all of Istanbul trusts that diverse a workforce for anything other than menial labor! And their trading post _thrived_! They were able to fund trips to the Mongol empire! Two of them! One lasting almost a decade before returning to Venedik and their family."

"Venedik?" Ezio asked, unfamiliar with the Turkish word.

"A city in your Italya, one that floats on water."

 _Venezia_ then. "But _where_ is such a historical place?" Ezio asked, looking at the ancient maps.

"That's the genius!" the scholar all but shouted. "It's _right_ where the old bazaar was before the Kapalicharshi was built."

"It still exists?"

" _Evet, Usta,_ " Azize said, her eyes aglow as she looked at the maps. "And I know just where it is."

The scholar beamed at them.

After Ezio's polite thanks, he and Azize took to the streets to find the ancient trading post.

"I wonder what is on the site now?" Azize murmured. "What can a trading post be turned into over the centuries? And an old Assassin base. An armory? An office building? That will be harder to infiltrate, especially if it's the _Sultan's_."

"I doubt the _Sultan_ would want his officials to be outside Topkapi," Ezio replied.

Azize let out a long sigh. "You are correct, _Usta_ , but I can't help but wonder."

"We'll find out soon enough."

"True."

It took two hours to cross the city to even get to the Kapalıcharshı, then around it as Azize took the lead to find where the trading post was. With all of her grandiose imaginings, when they finally found the building, all Azize could mutter was, "Perfect..."

The small square was southeast of the Kapalıcharshı and west of Ayasofya by only a block, tucked neatly between buildings midway up a hill with small rows of flowers along walls. Carpets were everywhere on the ground, ready for prayers, and small tins of incense burned. The shop itself was two stories tall, the living quarters likely above, with a single tree climbing the side. Two massive carts of books were bowing under their weight, with many customers stopping to browse titles.

Glancing at each other, they both entered the shop.

The interior was filled to bursting with books, shelves dipping with the weight. The shop was very small, and it felt even smaller with all the books piled high everywhere one looked. A wide window looked out to the square, but was partially obscured by the shelves of books outside for perusal. A comfortable sitting area was arranged by the fire for any who wished to spend more time with the books, a small drink set off to the side. Thick rugs lined the floor, softening the steps on the wood. A glance up showed that there was a balcony above with more shelves overflowing with books and nooks for reading.

From behind the shelves a tall redhead emerged, her green dress nicely complimenting both her hair and green eyes. After seeing so many women of the city covered head to toe in silks per some Muslim tradition Ezio didn't quite understand, seeing a woman who showed her curves and hinted at her cleavage with the cut of the dress with leaving plenty still to the imagination, Ezio couldn't help but smile. He recognized her and he couldn't help but wonder if that young Ottoman scholar had ever made any progress as he made a move ahead of Ezio to grab her attention. He let out the smallest of chuckles.

Probably not. He was just barely over half her age. Ezio, by contrast, was probably old enough to be her father. But she was a beauty to behold. And it reminded him of his younger, carefree days.

The redhead smiled widely, her eyes flicking between the more Italian cut of Ezio's clothes and Azize's more Turkish look. " _Buon Giorno! Merhaba!_ Please, come in," she settled on Italian. "I have many books to view, fiction and non-fiction, what would you—Ah!" as she turned to gesture to her overloaded shelves, she bumped a very precariously balanced pile of books that tumbled to the floor. "Excuse the clutter," she said, hastily crouching down to start stacking the fallen books. "I have had no time to tidy up since my trip. I'm still sorting my new stock so that I can put them in the right section and I just-"

Ezio had stepped down the stairs and was leaning over to help pick up the books. "You sailed from Rhodes, no?"

The woman glanced up in surprise, suddenly still. " _Sì_ ," she said slowly. "How did you know?"

Ezio offered one of his best grins. "We were on the same ship." He gave a proper bow that hid a signal that sent Azize into the stacks to give them some privacy. "I am Ezio Auditore," he introduced himself then went back to helping her with her books.

"Sofia Sartor," she replied, eyeing him more closely, clearly trying to place him. "Have we met?"

Ezio gave another of his smiles and smoothly said, "We have now."

Sofia gave a small giggle, clearly amused, and stood with her books. " _Grazie_ for the help. Now, what sort of books are you looking for?"

"The rarest," he replied easily. Ah, to speak in Italian again! This was truly refreshing.

"And your...?" she gestured to where Azize was currently pulling out a scroll of old maps and unrolling it.

"Student," he supplied.

Sofia's eyes gleamed, but she turned, setting her books more solidly on a desk that was almost hidden under all the books that surrounded it in boxes and stacks. Then she took Ezio's and stacked them on top of the pile she'd just made and ignored the distinct wobble.

"And what does she want?"

"As you can see, she has an interest in maps."

"I see. And you, _Messere_ , what sort of rare books do you want?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Was she... flirting with him? Ezio had to be old enough to be her father! Yet he recognized that grin, that raised eyebrow. She was interested.

It was... flattering. Ezio was still a notorious flirt, but he was always the one starting the banter. No woman had started flirting with him in almost ten years. Ezio offered a warm grin. "I'll know them when I see them."

"I see," she said, her eyebrows both raised and the corner of her mouth just barely quirked. "Most of my best tomes are in the back."

And indeed, as she took him to the back room which was even _more_ overflowing with books, she did have a wide variety and many were clearly very old, yet still in incredible condition. She eagerly prattled on, listing the titles she had, their age and condition, how she obtained them, but Ezio let the Italian wash over him as he and his eagle looked around more carefully. Nothing was catching his eye, no hint of gold of what he was looking for, but there was a door to another room. Hmmm...

"It is nice to meet another Italian in this district," Sofia said with a satisfied little sound that immediately drew Ezio's attention. "Most keep to the Venetian quarter and Galata."

Ezio smiled sincerely, "Likewise. I had assumed the Ottoman war with Venezia would have driven most of you away."

Sofia shrugged. "I lived here with my parents when I was a girl. The war pushed us out, but I always knew I would return."

A very determined young woman. That was truly admirable. And she clearly ran this bookshop on her own. To find a woman in charge of anything was truly astounding and Ezio had a moment where he simply savored being in the presence of such an amazing and beautiful woman.

He picked up an old book of what looked like Turkish fairy tales, and started to collect a small stack of books. He wouldn't mind making a purchase and supporting such an inspiration. "Do you have anywhere private to look through these?"

She arched another brow at him, with that quirk of her lips, and glanced at the titles he'd selected. "That's quite the assortment," she commented. When Ezio didn't reply to the obvious question, her eyes sparkled with curiosity. "This way, _Messere_ , I have a reading room for more dedicated scholars. Today is perfect for it."

She took him out the door he had noticed before to a small courtyard with lattice work and vines that reminded him of the vineyards of _Italia_ lacing through them as a ceiling. One could hear birds chirping nearby and Ezio spied a bird feeder above them on the roof where the birds were gathering. Like in the Assassin hideout, fabrics hung from the ceiling and swayed in the breeze. Lanterns were already lit for the afternoon light that was fading. There was a fountain in a corner dropping fresh clean water into a small basin. There was a bench along a wall and more shelves weighed down with books that were in crates yet to be organized. The back wall was built into the hill, small windows along the top where one could see the feet and hooves of the street traffic above.

"This will be perfect."

Sofia's quirked grin grew to a full smile. "I'll check on your student then. Does she also speak Italian?"

"Unfortunately, no."

Sofia shrugged and walked back into the bookstore.

Ezio watched her leave and smiled. What a breath of fresh air she was.

But he was alone, which gave him the chance he needed to look around. His eagle was already eliminating possibilities until he saw the faintest traces of gold that always signaled what he was looking for. Crouching down beside a wall, Ezio pushed aside elaborate pillows and rugs until he noticed the tiniest of holes at the base of the wall. Under the hole in the floor was a hole down to a cistern, covered with a grate, and Ezio could hear the splashing of water. It was a decorative panel and that hole at the base looked very interesting.

In fact, it was a hole that looked to be the right size for a hidden blade.

With a smile, Ezio crouched a little lower and extended the hidden blade that had been by his side since he'd found it in his father's secret study.

There was a click, and Ezio stood back as the heavy sound of stone moving echoed in the courtyard. From behind him he could hear Azize rushing out, clearly worried about the sound. " _Usta_!" she hissed, but then gasped.

Sofia arrived a moment later, her voice calling out as she opened the door, "Have you found anything interesting?"

Ezio turned, standing next to the ancient doorway that was now open.

" _Mio Dio!_ Who put that there?" Sofia gasped.

" _Usta_ , is that...?" Azize glanced at Sofia and let the sentence hang.

Ezio smiled. "Why don't we find out?"

Azize looked sharply at him and then to Sofia, but he gave a small hand signal. Sofia would not be coming, but he would let her see the opening.

"Rare indeed," Sofia said in awe, crouching to look into the dark depths of the tunnel. "But I'm in my best dress, I won't be exploring that."

Ezio nodded and looked to Azize, who nodded as well.

Sofia stood straight, and looked to Ezio with a puzzled quirk of the lips. "Who are you, _Messere_? To find such a hidden alcove?"

"Only the most interesting man in your life," he replied, and though his tone was light, he was dead serious. Ezio knew he lead an interesting and dangerous life, and he never took it lightly. Not after decades of seeking revenge and seeing friends and family fall.

But because his tone was light, Sofia gave a light giggle, "Ah, go bury your head!" But her eyes still sparkled.

" _A presto_ , Sofia. I will return," he turned to Azize and switched back to Turkish. "Enjoy your maps, and later your prayers. I'll be along when I can." He glanced to Sofia out of the corner of his eye, and Azize nodded. She would keep an eye on Sofia as well as ensuring Ezio wasn't interrupted.

Turning, Ezio entered the tunnels.

Ezio walked into the tunnel, his boots splashing in water and squelching in something he couldn't see. There was a steady dripping noise from the condensation and above he could hear the clatter of hooves and stomping of feet from the street above him. The noise faded gradually as the hill ascended to Ayasofya and he kept going straight, even slightly down. The light behind him wasn't enough to see by, even with his eagle helping he could not see in complete darkness, so Ezio reached into his pack and pulled out a candle. He had remembered the various Assassin tombs he'd found throughout Italia, and the strange underground relics of ancient civilizations, and when looking for the keys of Masyaf, Ezio had packed candles just in case.

Pausing as he lit the candle, Ezio thought of Desmond, the strange spirit attached to him in some way and the messages meant for him; from Juno under the very seat of the Catholic Church to those strange Arabic numbers he and Leonardo had discovered near Trinita dei Monti. It felt vaguely like his very existence was simply for the spirit of Desmond, like his life was some grand game for Desmond to play in order to get the clues for the next puzzle. Ezio let out a bitter sigh. He had no right to judge this strange spirit attached to him. For all Ezio knew, Desmond could be trapped, forced to follow Ezio's life and all the messages Ezio received were ways to free him. There was just so little Ezio knew of the spirit and of the spirit world where Desmond resided. Making any kind of guess with just a name and a bunch of messages would be forever flawed.

Continuing down the tunnel, noise reduced to only the drips of water and his own footsteps. The light of the candle helped and his Eagle stretched his sight farther until he came to a set of steps rising, yet the ceiling stayed the same height. Going up the steps and crouching, Ezio crawled through a hole and looked out to a massive cistern unlike the one's he'd been through before.

The architecture was eerily familiar since, as an Italian and Catholic, he'd been inside many similar architectures. Ezio blew out his candle, a grate to the street far above providing enough light for Ezio to simply sit down and admire the engineering it would have taken to make a cistern out of a buried basilica.

Ezio's eyes darted around, already seeing the touch of Assassins in the design and architecture. The beams near the ceilings connecting the columns in support were just the length needed for basic Assassin jumps in climbing and running. Certain pillars had wooden supports that were ideal for climbing, and the occasional lantern made for excellent swinging. It was ingenious. The Polos _must_ have had an active part in converting the basilica to a cistern.

Despite the clear centuries that had passed since this den had been built, the wood looked solid. And with an almost childish smile, Ezio leapt forward to one of the beams. The room had been a cistern for centuries and exposed to water, but the beam still held. It was softer than Ezio would have preferred and would need to be replaced, but it still did its job. With a smile, Ezio started leaping from beam to beam, enjoying the climbing and running as he rarely had. This wasn't teaching, or using the skills to hide or hunt. This wasn't even the sudden freedom the hookblade had given him. This was running and climbing just for the joy of it, for the fun and challenge, like when he had been a mere boy and Federico showed him how to climb with cryptic hints of their father.

As he crossed the beams, noting which weren't sturdy and mentally picturing what this must have been like back when the Polos ran the Assassins, Ezio paused at the far end and looked at a small hole in the wall, innocuous, with water running down over the edge. His eyes narrowed as he automatically gauged distances and took the leap, crawling inside and lighting his candle again.

Brilliant! Another set of stairs widened the hole to a full tunnel, just as the way he'd come in had. Ezio couldn't help but wonder where the Polos had learned such designs to stay hidden, but he already knew, having read the journal cover to cover already. The Mentor. It had to be. Ezio didn't know if that Mentor had been Altaïr or not, he had no way of knowing as the journal only ever mentioned the Mentor and never a name. But Ezio couldn't help but wonder.

He was also starting to get a sense of how the den was set up.

The tunnel curved, engulfing Ezio in darkness again until it opened to another vast room of the basilica from above. This room was in more disrepair than the prior, the water having taken its toll over the centuries. But the basic structure was still sound, with clear stairs and supporting columns. In here, however, Ezio's wonder and awe were quickly dropped in favor of suspicion and caution.

Down below were a group of masons, easily a half dozen, all sitting in the light from an above grate, eating.

"What misery!" one growled, unaware of Ezio's intense focus and interest. "Do you know how long we've been searching this filthy cistern?"

One of the other masons, clearly a young apprentice, shrugged. "I've been here a few weeks."

The first mason glared. " _Thirteen months_!" he growled in response. "Ever since this 'Grandmaster' person found something underneath the palace. We were hired to _rebuild_ after this earthquake, but no, now we're excavating."

"Wait, what?" the young apprentice asked. "I thought we've been clearing rubble from the Little Judgment?"

The rest of the masons shook their heads. "No, we're excavating. The only repair work we do is to make sure that the areas we excavate are secure."

"But we were _hired_ to repair the damage of the earthquake!"

A Byzantine came in, his red armor distinctive in the dark light and Ezio wondered why none of the masons recognized the armor that was completely different from the Ottomans. But then Ezio shook his head. The Byzantines had been ousted sixty years prior. Any who actually saw the armor of the Byzantines would be in their seventies or eighties. The children who grew up on the stories would be in their fifties and sixties. Not the younger masons who were still in their prime. Ezio also doubted any had read books or seen pictures.

The Byzantines looked at the masons sitting around and barked in Greek-accented Turkish, "Get back to work, bums!"

The masons jerked, surprised, then scrambled to return to hammering away at the stone that supported the city.

Ezio frowned deep into his beard. Grandmaster? Templars. Templars knew the keys were spread about the city and were likely underground. Ezio had known the Templars had a key from under Topkapi, but that conversation raised some questions. These were masons, who thought they were rebuilding city supports and were confused over why they were excavating instead. But the only officials who could order such repairs were from the Sultan. Or so Ezio believed. He'd have to check with Yusuf. However the Templars in the area were Byzantine, not Ottoman, which left a question of how the Templars could order Ottomans around. The easiest and simplest answer was disturbing. There was a Templar _in_ Topkapi. And that was very unsettling.

Looking around, Ezio saw a path he needed to traverse to another hidden hole near the ceiling. The masons were innocent. Ezio would do nothing to them. But the Byzantine leaders would get no such guarantee.

The Byzantine left through a lower arch, likely to another room in the basilica. With another glance at the true path to the Masyaf key, Ezio easily hopped from beam to beam before dropping down in front of the arch, his landing hidden in the echoes of the Masons hammering on stone. The next room was similar to the first, with towering columns damaged by the earthquake and a path along the ceiling that Ezio could already follow as he glanced around. The sitting water of the cistern was clearly visible, but there were wooden platforms almost everywhere, clearly more constructed and probably where the Templars had started their excavation of this area.

Ezio swiftly climbed to the upper rafters and took stock of the room. Like the prior room, masons were everywhere, hammering away at the walls that held up the city, and each looked as confused and unhappy as the masons in the other room. Most interesting, however, was the door to ascending stairs to the light of the outside. Another entrance to the cistern? Ezio couldn't help but grin at the ingenuity of the Polo brothers.

Yet most interesting was the Byzantine and a small guard he had around him as he poured over maps and grunted back and forth with his men in Greek. Ezio couldn't understand a word of it, but it sounded frustrated. Well, he'd just have to frustrate them even further.

Staying on the beams, Ezio took aim to the guard that was built like a mountain and carried a heavy ax. With careful aim developed from years of fighting, Ezio fired a poisoned dart into the soft tissues of the neck. It didn't take long for hallucinations to set in, and he had his ax out and attacking his fellow guard. The masons turned at the commotion and wisely stepped back, away from the fight.

The poisoned guard's first swing of the ax took out the Byzantine captain neatly, and with a feral growl, the guard started attacking his companions. Another fell, almost cleaved in two, before the remaining three pulled out weapons and started shouting in Greek. The fight was unpleasant, and as the axman suffered the poison more and more, his moves got sloppy. One of the three guards was down and dying from a massive gash across his abdomen, and another had lost his arm entirely. But the last guard, untouched by the ax, snuck up behind the axman and stabbed his sword through him.

Well, Ezio couldn't let a Templar live and get more assistance. He threw a knife and the Byzantine went down. Another knife provided mercy to the Byzantine.

And, because of the darkness, none even noticed.

"What do we do now?" one of the masons asked.

"I don't know, I-"

Ezio appeared before them, timing it perfectly and looking as though he'd just come from the stairs that lead outside. He'd pulled out a parchment and was looking between it and the cistern, looking nothing like he'd just been up in the rafters raining death down on the Byzantines.

" _Efendim_ ," a mason stepped forward. "What are you-"

" _Merhaba_ ," Ezio greeted, working to remove all traces of Italian from his words. After months of speaking nothing but Turkish, he hoped his accent was greatly diminished, and speaking with care and precision would remove the last of it. "What are you doing in this cistern?"

The masons all blinked. "But, we were hired to-"

Ezio cut them off, looking to his parchment again. "You were supposed to be rebuilding the columns. They are what support our city. Yet when I look around it appears that you haven't lifted a finger to do so."

"But he said-"

"Who?" Ezio interrupted again.

The masons gestured to the bodies and Ezio looked to the corner. " _Bok!_ " he swore, stepping back in apparent surprise. "Byzantines!"

" _What_?!" the masons all shouted.

Ezio continued to swear in Turkish, appearing to be shocked and caught off guard. Finally he turned to the masons. "Who is leading you?"

The head mason was soon fetched and Ezio started to talk, with precise care to pronounce all the Turkish as perfectly as possible. He explained that this was Byzantine armor, that Byzantines were telling them the wrong thing to do, and that they should be careful whenever dealing with the dogs of Byzantium. He would, of course, report this to the Sultan's officials and that the masons should go to all the other sites and ensure that Byzantines weren't instructing them wrongly.

The mason nodded and Ezio kindly asked for the masons to remove the bodies from the cistern, so that the water stayed pure. With the masons dispatched, Ezio returned once more to the rafters and returned to the path he was following.

The room that he was led to was small and dry. From his candle, he could find old torches that he lit and looked around in awe once again. Much like Masyaf, the room was not massive or grand, but small and humble. There were no tall columns with carved bases, but the heavy stone arches of the Masyaf castle without adornment. The torchlight gave a warm glow to all the dust and cobwebs, and the architecture was simple. In the middle, on a slightly raised platform was a statue of a hooded man in long robes, akin to the statue of Altaïr under Monteriggioni or the drawings Altaïr had done in his codex. The arms had the bracers that would have hid the hidden blades, and his hands were together at his waist holding...

Ezio blinked and stepped up cautiously. There was a disk that was unlike anything made by man. It was, however, like something Ezio had seen before. Like the Apple. Even after centuries, it was smooth, with grooves that had been carved in a pattern that was akin to the grooves of the Apple. The disk didn't even have any dust of the centuries coating it. And as Ezio reached out to pick it up, it started to glow golden just as the Apple did.

As with the Apple, there was a heavy sense of presence in the disk. He could almost hear a whisper, but where the Apple held what could best be described as a strong voice, the disc was only barely heard. Indeed, Ezio couldn't even grasp the whisper to listen better. It simply was there, quiet and settled.

He didn't understand. The Piece of Eden was always so direct and forceful, but this disc was almost the complete opposite. How did one even use it and what was it used for?

Ezio shook his head. Now, in the dark, was not the time to ask these questions.

So he held the disc tight and tucked it into his belt. Stepping back down, Ezio noticed something he hadn't once he'd seen the disc.

An ancient roll of paper, preserved in the dry environment and away from the sun. Gently, Ezio picked it up and unrolled it, looking in the torchlight to see what it was.

A map.

And, if Ezio was correct, a map to the other keys, hidden in a forgotten room of the long abandoned Assassin den of the Polo brothers.

Holding the map close, and securing the disc in his belt, Ezio put out the torches and started to make his way back to Sofia's bookshop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Or, Why Sofia Drove us NUTS): See our long rant in the ff.net pposting.
> 
> Muslim Lesson: Holidays continued: After Ramadan & Eid ul Fitri, there is Eid ul Adha (not THAT Adha :P), a celebration of a story that originates from the Jewish Tora: when Ibrahim proves his devotion by sacrificing his son Ismail. Allah recognizes the devotion & rewards Ibrahim with a qibas instead. As expected, meat is sacrificed, cooked, & given to the poor. Usually the meat is given to the community where the meat was sacrificed; this is a community obligation rather than an individual one – meaning if one person in the neighborhood does the slaughtering it counts for the whole neighborhood, & if no one did it the whole neighborhood has sinned.
> 
> The next major holiday is Maal Hijra: Islamic New Year & celebrates the journey of Muhammed (peace be upon him) from Mecca to Medina, i.e. year 0. Western calendars mark time as b.c. & a.c., Islamic calendar marks BH & AH, before & after Hijra. Islam is about 600 years younger than Christianity. While we're in the 21st century, Muslims think we're in the 1400s.
> 
> Next: Son of Umar.


	5. Son of Umar

Ezio was deep in thought when he exited back into the small latticed courtyard of the bookshop. He had looked at the map once more under the late afternoon sunlight of some of the rooms of the cistern and had a better idea of the hiding that the Polos had done. At least the map seemed to be in poorly written Italian, instead of the Arabic he'd had to decipher of Altaïr's codex. But there were titles along the margins of ancient books, many thought lost, and numbers that no doubt had to do with specific pages, or lines or words. That would lead to the next book, assuming the books weren't damaged from the centuries. But how to find those books...? The writing, while still readable, was very faded, and in the dimming light Ezio could not decipher it. Plus were the markings on the map proper, which appeared to lead to specific points in the city, but given the code along the margin, Ezio doubted it was an accurate representation of where some of the keys truly were.

He'd need someone to help decipher all of this. But the Assassins were busy regrouping after the Little Judgment. And the scholars at the university were still under the Sultan's control. Which meant that whoever the Templar in Topkapi was, they might find out what the university was up to. Ezio frowned into his beard. He shouldn't have used them at all.

Ezio let out a sigh, and pulled out the disc to look at it in the early evening light. "I wish you could offer some help to find the other keys," he whispered. But there was no response. It just kept glowing dimly in his hands.

Ezio stepped into the back room of the bookshop and paused, looking around. Sofia had many ancient books, indeed, one or two that dated back a century or more. She wasn't affiliated with any Turkish officials, she was simply running a bookshop. Looking for ancient books would make sense as she would be trying to bolster her stock. And she had curiosity. She wouldn't mind a puzzle like the margin of the map and would have more time and resources to devote to it instead of the Assassins.

And, in a very selfish corner of his mind, it would be an excuse to see such a breath of fresh air regularly.

In the front room, Sofia and Azize were animatedly talking on a couch by the fire. Sofia's Turkish was better and more fluid than Ezio's, understandable if she'd spent part of her childhood here. Azize noticed Ezio's arrival right away, and turned to greet him, which drew Sofia's attention.

" _Usta,_ " Azize greeted.

" _Salve_ , Ezio," Sofia smiled with that slight quirk of her lips that suggested so much. "That took some time. What did you find?"

Ezio walked over to her desk and unrolled the map. "Something that may interest you."

" _Mio Dio_ ," she said in awe after a moment of looking at it, her eyes already going to the margins. She rushed to where she and Azize had been talking and grabbed a map of the city and started to compare it. "It's _beautiful_!" she exclaimed, fingers hovering over the pages and darting around to compare. "And here is my shop!"

" _Usta,_ " Azize asked quietly. "What do the margins say?"

Sofia was quick to answer, "These are the titles of books! _Rare_ books!" She leaned forward, squinting and pulling a candle closer. "A few of these have not been seen in more than a millennium."

"Niccolò Polo hid these books around the city," Ezio explained his theory. "This map should tell us where. I just don't know where to start."

Sofia stood straighter and looked at him, eyes alight in curiosity. "Hmm, you are beginning to interest me," she said with that quirk of her lips. "Vaguely."

Ezio smiled and dipped his head.

"It's like a good adventure book," Azize murmured. "A treasure map to untold wealth."

"Or, in this case," Ezio replied, "knowledge. From what I can tell, I need to find these three books first," he said, pointing along the margin.

"A good thought," Sofia replied, studying closely, "but I think that book is wrong. I think you want this one instead."

Ezio gave an amused smile. A very smart lady indeed. He could already see the point she was trying to make.

A cloud passed over the setting sun, dimming the light and making Azize and Sofia look more directly to the disc in Ezio's hand, the item giving off its own light. "Very curious," Sofia said, leaning over to take a look.

Ezio held it up for both to see.

"One was found beneath Topkapi Palace," he explained. "This map will help us reach the other keys in time."

"Found?" Sofia asked, straightening and raising a brow. "By whom?"

"Men who do not read," Ezio replied. To his delight, her eyes sparkled with amusement and curiosity. "Sofia, can you decipher this map? Help me find these books?"

Sofia tilted her hips to one side, placing her hands on them and gave a nice view of her small waist. "Can I borrow them when you are finished?"

Ezio's smile was highly amused. "We will work something out."

" _Usta_ ," Azize asked softly. "We can't go out into the streets with this... glowing like that."

Ezio smiled at her and turned to so Sofia. "So, I was thinking of buying a book. Tell me, I think the weather might be bad. Do you have cloth to wrap it in?"

"Oh _Messere_ , you _are_ clever," she giggled, a hand going up to her mouth as her eyes sparkled again. "Come, I have some thick burlap in case of bad weather."

After Ezio had made his purchase, he and Azize headed back to the docks to get a boat back to Galata and the hideout.

They returned later than Ezio expected, but given how massive the city was and how late it was when they had left Sofia's bookshop, it wasn't a surprise. Yusuf greeted them warmly, as he always did, and dinner was brought out. It didn't take long for Yusuf to notice the odd package that Ezio had brought with him, nor the fact that in the dimmer light of the hideout it was clearly glowing. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"I believe so," Ezio replied, unwrapping the book and the strange disc. "This is one of Altaïr's five keys. A strange artifact."

"Ah..." Yusuf held it up to the light, studying it. "It is like nothing I have ever seen. But it reminds me of your description of that strange artifact the Borgia obtained. That letter was a good read, _Usta_ da Firenze, like a fairy tale."

"I assure you, bizarre as it was, it did happen."

"Oh I have no doubt," Yusuf replied with his usual smile. "You wouldn't have sent word otherwise and it has certainly made information gathering more interesting."

Ezio shook his head. It had been a long day in the tunnels and cisterns and he could use some sleep.

"Ezio, I am coordinating with our allies tomorrow. Hayri at the Bazaar and Cenk near the Arsenal and Kizzy of the Romani in the Constantine District," Yusuf started to lay out his plans for the following day as he usually did.

Ezio gave a flat eyed stare. "You are spreading yourself a bit thin, Yusuf. _Again_."

Yusuf offered a wide, massive grin. "It seems I am. And how lucky I am that such an esteemed _usta_ such as yourself is here."

Ezio gave a low chuckle. "I have had so little contact with the Romani in the past," he said. "I would like to meet them."

Yusuf smiled broadly.

The following day, since he would be in the southern part of the city, Kasim was his guide, easily taking him through the throngs and over the Lycus River chattering about history the same way Yusuf might.

Finally, Kasim started to quiet as they approached midmorning, pausing then for midday prayers and something to eat. Ezio still found all the praying off-putting. Christianity always claimed piety, but it was obvious whenever one looked to priests or cardinals in massive cities that corruption was simply the way of things. One need only see the Borgia as proof, they were only the latest in a long line who sold indulgences to the highest bidder to secure their place in heaven so the buyer wouldn't have to _be_ pious; it always made the graying grandmaster dubious when he saw it touted so openly, but Ezio was aware that in smaller towns that the priests or nuns did effect the piety they professed. They asked it of the people, but were willing to simply forgive. Those that went so far into their piety that they forced it onto others... were like Savonarola.

Ezio let out a sigh at the memory, of his beloved Firenze without its soul, with the bonfire of the "vanities," and the required devotion to absolute piety that had robbed him of Cristina. Cristina, who had died in his arms and her husband, who had begged him to save her.

No, absolute piety _couldn't_ be a good thing. Not when it lead to that.

But walking around Constantinopoli and seeing people readily pulling out prayer rugs and bending down five times a day was... Ezio didn't judge, Islam wasn't how he'd grown up, but the absolute piety he saw practiced always brought up negative memories. At least he wasn't expected to participate. People recognized the diversity of religion here, and none expected Christians to bow down. So he sat down during prayers and pulled out the Polo journal to pass the time and let others exercise their devotion.

It was after the midday prayers that Kasim led Ezio to small encampment within the Constantinian walls along the fields where a few farmers grew food for the city without having to import it from outside. There were colorful wagons and tents strewn everywhere, people milling about. Many were playing instruments, or practicing small tricks like eating or breathing fire. Several girls were practicing various dances. Ezio was already drawing comparisons with the courtesans he'd worked with over the decades. They could stand out and distract at a moment's notice, but then hide in the crowd like a ghost.

But for all that the people were happily practicing, one woman, in reds and violets, her thick hair tied into many small braids and looping by her neck, was frowning with a group of men, discussing something.

Ezio stepped forward, Florentine charm already on as he would with the courtesans of Italia. "I've seen happier men at the gallows," he said.

The woman whirled, clearly not having expected to be interrupted. Upon seeing his hood and Kasim's she relaxed but remained prickly. "Crack wise elsewhere, _efendim_ ," she barked. "Today the Byzantines have stolen half a year's worth of coin from us."

So the comparison with the courtesans had some limits.

" _Mi dispiace_ ," he said sincerely. "Can I help?"

The woman tucked a loose strand of hair under her red bandana. " _Italyan_? You must be that _usta_ that Yusuf speaks so highly of all the time. I am Kizzy."

Ezio gave a flourishing bow. "And he has many stories of how Romani women would put him in his place when he was younger."

Kizzy actually laughed a moment, before getting serious again. "Perhaps you can help, if Yusuf sent you," she said, her eyes sizing him up. Ezio was already using all the posture lessons that the courtesans of Paola and Teresa taught him to appear innocuous and forgettable. " _Evet_ ," she said, "you have been taught well indeed. No wonder you recommended to Yusuf that we train his novices in hiding. You see the benefit of it."

"Of course," he said. "A blade is always best hidden. And one who stands out must know when not to."

Kizzy nodded. "For centuries my people have been slandered and insulted, labeled witches and warlocks," she growled, her anger rising. "Well, so be it. We will not run from these lies any more, but embrace them. We will become what they claim. We will encourage the rumors, for it is better to be _infamous_ than ignored and stomped on."

Ezio grinned. "I like the sound of that."

"Of course!" Kasim burst, eager to agree with Ezio. The Florentine Assassin silenced him with a look.

Kizzy didn't let the outburst faze her. "With you here, my plan is for every man who touched that chest of coin to die. Discreetly. As if from a pagan hex. Then, our Romani curse becomes our blessing and people will leave us be."

"That will not be a problem," Ezio nodded. "Do you know where the chest is?"

"No," Kizzy replied. "They killed our people. The only one who survived was able to tell us it was the Byzantines before he died."

Ezio turned to Kasim.

"Right away, _Usta_."

"Now," Ezio said. "We will have your money back soon. For now, tell me more stories of Yusuf."

Kizzy grinned. "You wish to know of that scoundrel? Very well. We'll start with when he kidnapped me."

Three _very_ informative hours later Kasim returned, out of breath, having found where the Byzantines were gathering and even having seen a large chest of some sort.

"Stay here and rest," Ezio said. "You have done well. The Romani and I will handle it from here."

Kasim quickly tried to get his breath back under control, "I can come, _Usta_ , I know the way and I can-"

"Make enough noise in your fatigue to draw attention," Ezio replied firmly. "Rest. You've told us where they are and we can handle this."

Kasim was clearly unhappy, but sat down on a log.

Kizzy sent four Romani with Ezio to act as his guides. Two were girls, their off-the-shoulder shirts reminding him of courtesans and he easily chatted with them on the streets, appearing to have hired entertainment for the early evening. The girls played right along, singing and randomly dancing, swaying hips and flittering fingers. One of the men was playing a strangely shaped lute, and the other blended easily into the crowds, leading the way.

They found the gathering of Byzantines in a square overlooking the Lycus. They were speaking Greek and Ezio couldn't understand a word of it, but one was clearly holding a massive chest.

"Is that your chest?" he softly asked one of the girls.

" _Evet_ ," she replied. Ezio checked his poisoned darts and aimed carefully. Soon the Byzantine had dropped the chest and was hallucinating. For the next three hours Ezio and the Romani followed the coins around the Constantine district. Every one who picked up the chest was soon raving and flailing before dropping dead to the ground. It was well into the night and the Byzantines didn't take long to pick up the pattern that the chest kept falling and someone new had to pick it up. The Romani who stayed by Ezio rotated and the ones who didn't were circulating the crowd spreading rumors of curses and that it was Romani money that was spilling blood and sanity. The crowds started to keep a wide birth from the Byzantines, further enforcing that the hallucinations couldn't _possibly_ have come from anything but a curse. But Ezio remained in the crowds, aiming his poisoned darts with ease, the Romani easily palming the darts and returning them to him to reuse on the next man.

Finally the Byzantines could take it no more. With shouts that probably translated to something like, "The money's not worth it!" they dispersed, running for their lives. Given the late hour, there weren't many left on the streets, and Ezio had no problem picking up the chest.

Kizzy appeared from the shadows, smiling. "Ah," she said with satisfaction, "the old tricks are always the best. Do be careful, Ezio," she smiled widely, raising a brow. "I hear that chest is cursed."

Ezio grinned in reply and bowed to her. "Where to, _bella donna_?"

"Back to our camp."

Ezio followed, the four Romani from before surrounding him and keeping him hidden as they took to the streets and alleys to return to the fields where the Romani were camping.

Kizzy, by Ezio's side, was still smiling. "Have you heard the term 'gypsy'?"

"Quite often, yes," Ezio nodded.

"Do you know that this word was born from the misapprehension that my people are from Egypt?"

Ezio blinked, not having realized that. "You find it offensive?"

Kizzy laughed. "I find it funny," she said. "My people are from eastern Persia and beyond. We wander where we will. Yet, somehow, we have become citizens of a land we have never seen."

With a sigh Ezio shook his head sadly. "People are quick to judge and slow to correct themselves," he observed.

"Psh," Kizzy brushed it aside. "People are stupid."

"Sometimes," Ezio agreed, though he himself had moved beyond the ignorance of his youth. Surely others could grow past it as well.

"Ezio," Kizzy said softly, "the simplest answer is often the best."

They remained quiet for the remainder of the walk. It was well after midnight when they arrived, and many Romani were still up, practicing their performances and singing. Kasim was asleep by a fire, and snoring softly. Ezio smiled to himself and brought the chest to one of the tables. "You should count it and make sure everything is there."

"Of course," she replied with a smile. "Do tell Yusuf he needs to drop by soon. I've been missing a particular part of him."

Suddenly Ezio understood the relationship between Yusuf and Kizzy in crystal clarity.

"I'll be sure to let him know."

Kizzy smiled, and offered a wagon for Ezio to sleep in.

* * *

It was _very_ late that night when things had settled enough for Ezio to study the strange Masyaf key he had unearthed under the dazzling redhead's bookshop. Yusuf had disappeared, ostensibly to "make the rounds" as he sometimes did, but the old Florentine knew better. The children were put to bed, the novices and apprentices either sleeping or studying. The underground cistern was dark, damp in the summer heat, making everything sticky and uncomfortable. Ezio moved to the library, one of the few dry rooms about the place, and sat at a desk, parchment and quill in hand, the key glowing softly and providing its own light. The geometric markings on the key were familiar, and the material; he had seen its kind before: just like the Apple of Eden, ancient magic from the First Civilization. Those Who Came Before had performed what only could be described as miracles: moving paintings, predictions of the future, the creation of artifacts such as the Apple and, apparently, this key. It was little wonder indeed that they were worshipped as gods of old, but then, Altaïr had created the hidden gun adorning Ezio's wrist, and such an invention was unheard of in the twelfth century. Perhaps the magic was simply technology? Engineering so advanced as to be seen as magic by those who did not understand?

Ezio looked at the key, its soft whisper of a voice indiscernible to him. If the old gods were capable of such feats, then how did they see men, he wondered. As children? Insects? When would humanity reach such a height that they would understand the workings of these artifacts? The thought was daunting, and still the aging grandmaster could not understand how to wrest the secrets of the key. The Apple was such that it was anxious, even eager, to offer suggestions and respond to the will of Ezio, excited to do whatever task was set about to it; but that did not mean the thing didn't have a mind of its own. When he had first recovered in Roma, beating Cesare in a desperate race to where Rodrigo Borgia had hidden it, the Apple had reached into his very blood, giving him curious, poorly remembered dreams.

Was that the missing link? Blood?

With a practiced flick of his wrist he extended his hidden blade and cut his finger, squeezing out several dollops of blood and pressing them against the disk. Nothing happened.

Frowning, he cleaned the smears away and held it in his hand, turning it over and wondering how to go about this. Meditating on ideas, he almost didn't notice that the faint whispering of the disk and gotten louder. The moment he did, however, it quickly returned to its far away hints.

"Is that what you want?" he asked it, his rich baritone soft in the dim light. "My thoughts?"

He had always feared how quickly the Apple had jumped into his mind in the few times he held it. It had driven lesser men to madness, it had taken the great Altaïr – with all his boundless wisdom and knowledge – his entire life to study it if the Codex was to be believed. The idea of willingly giving himself over to the item, of willingly letting go of himself, was too terrible to contemplate.

… But this was not the Apple. The key's voice was very different: soft, calm, even. Could there be less risk in such an endeavor? Or was he so desperate for answers that he was willing to try anything?

Ezio smirked. He had thought he was going to die fighting, at Masyaf. Was this any less sane?

Closing his eyes, he quieted his thoughts, focusing on connecting to the mysterious key, and asking what story it wanted to tell. The light grew stronger, more persistent, and he could feel that soft whisper get louder; distinct words could be made out, and he realized he was not listening to the excited Italian of the Apple, but the distinct consonants of... Arabic?

And then he was no more.

* * *

There were sig _hts and sou'ata and fe_ elings that he had ne _ver felt before merda cosa sta succedendo heat ho_ rse home going home succ _essful mis_ sion it was how it all star _ted and I didn't know it at the time holy shit I know what's h_ appening he's a master and a mua _limi and a mualim but è questo vero an_ d I need to pa _ss this on for him for them they need to und_ erstand th _ese da'halokali t_ hese meditations these reas _ons for what things happened tell the st_ ory I don't fucking believe it I'm go _ing to be questo potrebbe essere dosomi Altaïr_.

_When does a man become a man? Ever since my sons were born I have wondered the answer to this question. I have asked my brothers and sisters and each have their own answer. Perhaps it is when they reach a certain age. Perhaps it is when their body begins to change. Perhaps when the change stops. Some say it is after the first kill. Others the demonstration of some kind of wisdom. Still others believe a child becomes a man when a particular skill is demonstrated. I do not know if these things are all true, or if they are all false, or if it is some combination of the like. My studies into it, however, have always been fragmented at best when other avenues of pursuit are more pressing or more immediate._

_I have, however, after much debate, come to my own opinion. It is not a conclusion, there is no fact to make it true for all men and women, and no way to test its validity. Indeed, there may never be a way to test the validity of any of the theories, let alone mine. But there is one thing I can say for certain, this theory held true for me._

_Because, the day_ I _became a man, was the day I stepped out of my father's shadow._

* * *

Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad was twenty-four years old. He had finished his apprenticeship in Jerusalem at the unheard of age of seventeen, having dedicated himself whole-hardheartedly to his studies. He was young, serious, reticent, and absolutely loyal to the Mentor, the Al Mualim, of the Order: Rashid ad-Din Sinan.

For the last six months he had been flitting all about the Holy Land; the assassin had watched Salah ad-Din seize control in the Battle of Hattin just a month ago in May, and everyone was breathing a sigh of relief that the Muslims were in charge of Jerusalem while the former king Guy could be heard shrieking and gnashing his teeth in lamentation all the way in Damascus while he waited for his ransom to be paid. Christian soldiers were demoralized, afraid, and had nowhere to go. Altaïr had spent weeks in the saddle, scouting the troop movements and now he would report them to one of Al Mualim's seconds: Yahid, perhaps, if he wasn't whiling away his time with his wife, or maybe Rashit or Fahd.

It was horror incarnate, then, when he saw Masyaf was ablaze with battle. He stood in his stirrups under the ancient Roman arch, watching the smoke billow and listening to the throws of battle. Where had _these_ troops all come from? All of his observations had indicated that the French troops were disorganized, incapable of action without its leadership. Who had managed to take charge and then lead an assault on _Masyaf_?

He pushed his black stallion into a full gallop, the animal terrified of the smoke but obeying its master. Past the gates was a small skirmish, three assassins trying to fight against thrice as many soldiers in mail and with white smocks, red crosses adorning the material.

… _Templars!_

Battle lust pushed all rational thought out of Altaïr's mind as he drew his sword and slashed his way through the throng; where his blade was unable to pierce the mail it was more than capable of breaking every bone underneath it. His enemies were here: enemies of the Order, enemies of the Creed, and _they would not last this day_. He rode around the Templars until one finally managed to cut down his horse. He dismounted with skill born of years of practice, and as he rolled to his feet three throwing knives left his hands and found targets in eyes and faces and groins. Breaking out in a dead run he ran through two Templars before entering a quick duel with a third; he overpowered the foreigner, quick but brutal strikes sending the man down. Spinning around, he found none were left standing.

Two of the assassins were dead, but one was still moving, struggling to get his feet under him and failing.

Sheathing his sword, Altaïr powered forward and crouched down.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his soft tenor carrying over the other unimaginable sounds going on further up the mountain.

"Broken foot," was the weary answer. Nodding, Altaïr bent down further and helped the assassin to his feet, swinging an arm over his shoulders and helping him to a nearby bench. Altaïr glanced around the opening square of the village. Were any of the Templars still about? He was about to ask when the assassin posed a query of his own. "I have never seen such skill before. Nine men to one and yet you are the victor, and uninjured no less. What is your name, brother?"

"Altaïr. Son of Umar."

"Umar..." the assassin said, his voice meditative, "ah yes. He was a fine man who lived as he died: With honor."

That made Altaïr blink, looking at the man he had just saved. In his forties, closely cropped hair and the thinnest line of a beard, he may well have known his father. Umar ibn-La'Ahad had died when Altaïr was a boy, his sacrifice had garnered an alliance with Salah ad-Din and was a thing of legend about the Order. Altaïr doubted he would ever reach such a height, but such thoughts would do him no good at this point in time. Instead he stood and looked down to the injured assassin. "Are any still left in the village?"

"Yes, no doubt. They number perhaps a hundred – not much but the surprise of the attack completely overwhelmed us. We were all at the keep and-"

"Fakhri! We have been betrayed. The enemy has overrun the castle! All is lost!"

Both men turned to see a new assassin arrive; he wore a journeyman's rank and darted down the hill, sword in hand and beard thick and curly. Altaïr's eyes widened when he recognized Abbas Sofian, boyhood roommate with Altaïr when they were first novices. Their stories were tragically tied; Abbas' father had betrayed the Order under Salah ad-Din's torture, and it had been Umar, Altaïr's own father, who had paid the price for it. Abbas' father had confessed all this to eleven year old Altaïr, and then killed himself before the child's eyes. Things had only gone downhill from there, but Altaïr had spent ten years outside Masyaf, and he hoped perhaps they could make amends.

Still staring in surprise, the injured assassin Fakhri, tried to stand. "All is not lost," he said, his voice weary and his broken foot failing to hold him. He collapsed back onto the bench. "It cannot be lost, without Al Mualim, we are nothing. How many are in the keep? Who has betrayed us? Is there a path that is still open?"

"It doesn't matter!" Abbas said, his eyes slightly wild. "This is the end of the Order. We cannot survive this!" The desolation hurt to see, and Altaïr's mind was already racing to figure out a way to reverse the damage these damned Templars had wrought.

"Are there still brothers in the village?" he asked, an idea coming to him.

"Who knows? Who _cares_?" Abbas shouted.

"Yes, there are," Fakhri said, eyes coming alight. "We deployed immediately to the village when we learned of the attack. Our numbers are comparatively even, it's possible to beat them back."

"No," Altaïr said. "Not at first, at least. But if we made a small, pincer strike through the town, we'll get enough men to hold the gates." He looked to Abbas. "Where is Al Mualim?"

The lion frowned deeply into his beard. "He was inside when the crusaders broke through. We can do nothing for him now, he's probably dead anyway. We must fall back!"

Altaïr looked to Fakhri. "You'll live, brother," he said, "Can you get your way to the gates?" he asked, pointing behind him. "Once we rout their forces we must close them to prevent another assault. If I can gather enough men, we can pinch our way through to the gates and then push the Templars out of the village." He turned to Abbas. "When I close the castle gate, their forces will be divided; flank the crusaders in the village and drive them into the canyon. Fakhri can close the gates after them and that will leave only the Templars in the keep to handle."

Abbas was beside himself, staring at Altaïr incredulously. "This is insane! You don't stand a chance! Who are you who thinks you can just _reverse_ this?"

Altaïr lifted his head enough for the lion to see under the cowl to his face, holding the gaze until Abbas recognized whom he was speaking to. Surprise colored his features, and then rage. That hurt, but in the end Altaïr had no time for that, other things were much too pressing and friendship should not mean that much regardless. " _You!_ " Abbas hissed. " _You_ honestly think...!"

"Abbas," he interjected, his soft tenor firm and unyielding. "No mistakes."

"Like _you_ are one to talk you-"

" _Abbas_ ," Fakhri said, having finally wobbled to his feet and using his sword as a crutch. "In the name of Allah, do as he says."

"But-"

" _Do it,_ or I'll see to it you're demoted to _apprentice_."

They were off after that. Altaïr took a deep breath, preparing himself for the marathon he was about to run, wondering if the Greek's had such thoughts when they created their Olympics, and allowed himself a drink from his waterskin. The doubting lion helped his superior to the gates and Altaïr charged up the hill at a dead run. Speed would be his greatest asset, and people from the Jerusalem Bureau were the fastest runners and climbers of the entire Order. He crisscrossed the city, his hidden blade extended in one hand and his sword in the other. The metal was warm in the summer heat, and he pressed his assassin's blade against the nub of his missing finger, the pressure giving him some small measure of comfort in his skills. Everything hinged on his being able to rally enough troops to make it up to the citadel. From there, the high ground gave them the advantage and they could slowly push the Templars down, back through the village, and out the gates. It was no small feat that he was suggesting, and numbers would have to be on his side. The first skirmish he found he bowled through, assassinating two men from behind – one with each blade, and then moving into a swift and brutal sword dance with three more. The odds of the fight were not good, but his brazen entering of the fray and his competence in taking down two – and now a third – so quickly gave heart to the brothers, and soon all the targets were down.

"I have a plan," he said simply, breathing through his nose. "But we need more men for it to work."

"I'm with you, brother," one of them said, with several murmurs of assent following.

"Can you all fight?"

" _Yes_ ," they said emphatically, eyes fierce and determined.

"Then let us garner more aide for our next assault."

Now four in number, they dashed to the market area. More targets were there, in the thick of another fight, and four assassins sweeping in from behind surprised them utterly; and momentum slowly built from there. More and more brothers rallied to the cause as they were saved and saw their numbers increase. All throwing knives were dedicated to archers that had been placed on the roofs, and several assassins broke off to herd away the citizens of Masyaf, begging or crying for their lives. More than once the assassins came upon targets raping or pillaging, trying to sack the city before victory had even been decided, and Altaïr took special pleasure in eviscerating them in the most savage way he could come up with.

"Have they no respect for innocent blood?" someone asked.

"They are _Templars_ ," Altaïr replied, the title explaining everything. The enemy was all things wrong with the world, the Assassins all things _right,_ and he would never forgive the Christians for the destruction they had wrought.

As a testament to how far the Templars had gotten in their assault, Altaïr found a thick mass of them above the stage, very nearly to the keep itself, and he realized that Abbas was right, only work from a traitor would get them so far up the mountain. Who was the traitor? Altaïr vowed a swift and _painful_ death for the madman who thought this was a good idea. Regardless, the assassin had over a dozen brothers with him, and he paused, panting slightly, and turning to the men. "Fighting uphill like this will cost us victory," he said quickly, "The goal is to pierce through this throng and retake the high ground, and then use the cliffs and boulders to push them down and away. I have a man, Fakhri, at the gates, and he will close them as soon as they are gone."

"What about the citadel?" one brother asked. "It was overrun, Al Mualim has been captured."

"Are we lost, then?"

" _No_ ," Altaïr hissed, forcing his way through the doubt. "With the other Templars pushed out, that leaves _only_ those in the keep. They have trapped themselves; they will not realize their comrades-in-arms have been pushed out, and we know the citadel far more intimately than they."

"It is risky," someone murmured.

"But it has merit, and I for one would rather die fighting than casually admit defeat."

"I as well."

"I as well."

"Then let us gamble," Altaïr said, "and let us see which blade fortune favors."

Taking a breath and another sip from his waterskin, Altaïr wiped the blood of his sword on his red sash. A moment to collect himself, and he took off at a dead sprint, the others trailing after him, and the dozen assassins burst through the fighting, their force strong enough to catch the Templars completely by surprise and rout several of them. A few assassins broke off to help their fellows, but it was carefully quick, just enough to even the playing field, and then back to the core that was running through the throng. Altaïr let loose one of his last throwing knives at a knave who dared to get in his way, and slashed at another who tried to block him. An archer missed his feet by inches, but a brother had already corrected that before he could look up and find the source.

They had reached the lower watchtower; it was ablaze, and _this_ was where the main force was. Altaïr grew nervous for the first time, perhaps there were not enough of them to push through, perhaps his thrown together plan would not work, perhaps this was a bad idea.

But the momentum was beyond his control now; three dozen assassins gave a great rallying cry, brashly plowing forward and throwing knives and slashing swords and cutting through the startled pause of the Templars. Their numbers swelled, the brothers that had been fighting their mortal enemies were joining the charge, shoving past the Templars, pushing them over cliffs, bursting up the hill to the gates of the citadel, their home, their sanctuary, their solace. Altaïr was forced to follow and suffer the consequences of his decision, and he realized he couldn't afford to be timid; this plan would work, _it would work_ , it _had_ to, and he refused to allow himself to think otherwise. He was a fool to even consider that his stratagem would fail, and his anger at himself pushed him quickly to the head of the crowd, past the bodies and the blood and the scent of death.

The gates were open – a feat that was so irrationally _stupid_ Altaïr didn't know what to make of it. Two brothers were slightly ahead of him, and all at once he heard the terrible grinding of massive wheels. "Stop!" he cried out, but too late, as the gates came crashing down and impaling the two assassins. Blood splayed everywhere, and through the storm of red the son of Umar saw the man responsible for it all.

Haras.

The pair had met on occasion, the man was an apprentice, eager to rise up the ranks, arrogant in his opinion of his ability. Altaïr would never have such a swelled opinion of himself, and now the man's ambition had cost him his very soul. Haras was now in mail and a black smock, a stylized Greek cross emblazoned on his chest. Were the Knights Hospitalier changing their crest? But now at least Altaïr understood a little better what he had been seeing, and he pressed himself against the gate, his hidden blade extracted and pressing painfully against the nub of his missing finger, lips curled in a snarl. Confidently Haras strode up to the gate, an ugly sneer on his features.

"Another step," he ordered, "and your Mentor dies."

Beyond Haras, Altaïr could see the training ring, bodies littered the ground, and above, at the entrance of the keep, was Al Mualim himself, standing calm and erect with two Templars at either side.

A hostage? Treachery! Altaïr's blood boiled.

"You will not leave this place alive, _traitor_ ," his hissed.

"No," Haras replied, glib and smiling. "You misunderstand. I am no traitor..." Slowly, deliberately, he put on the thick helmet, completing his transformation to a Templar. "...for I cannot betray those I never truly loved."

"Then you are doubly wretched," Altaïr growled, "for you have been living a _lie_."

Laughter emerged from the helmet, metallic and overconfident, and Haras turned and calmly marched up the path to Al Mualim.

"Heathen!"

"Wretch!"

"Traitor!"

"What do we do?" one of the brothers hissed.

"Things have not changed," Altaïr said, refusing to let the revelation affect him. Blood pulsed in his veins, he was almost seeing red, and soon he would be lost to his bloodlust. Shaking his head, he turned to the mass of men before him. "Work downhill, rout the Templars. Five of us will infiltrate the keep."

"Only five?"

"There _must_ be others inside, the surprise will rally them. Let's go."

Four men stayed, and they quickly decided who would take what route into the citadel. Upon dispersal, Altaïr was left to climb the face of the citadel gate. He looked up, plotting his route slowly through the haze of energy, and took a running leap, reaching up to grab at a wooden beam attached to the wall. The beams led to a small, narrow platform halfway up the wall, and Altaïr saw hammers and tools, likely to do restoration or repair. The Assassin symbol embossed on the stone provided several handholds, and in the span of an hour he crested the top of the wall and assassinated a Templar bowman whose eyes swept the inner courtyard of the keep for any signs of dissent. Altaïr looked out over the expanse, crouched behind several crates and getting the lay of the land. Al Mualim still stood at the entrance of the citadel, and Haras paced about him, apparently holding some kind of interrogation. Beside the pair and the Templar guards, were Al Mualim's seconds: Yahid, Rashit, and Fahd. Altaïr had worked with Yahid the most, the man utterly in love with his wife and often more than willing to share gossip about his family. His prattling was annoying, but Altaïr did not want to see the assassin bound as he was, blood oozing down his face.

Haras made a gesture, and the Templar guarding the three seconds took his sword and beheaded Yahid.

Blasphemy! Heresy! _Heathen! Infidel!_

Altaïr growled and began tracing his way around the parapet.

**"** _Now_ you call on your lapdog to protect you?" Haras growled. "You disappoint me. Why not share what you have learned with everyone, like a proper Assassin? Why not share with your brothers the true extent of your ambition? Where is your sense of fraternity?"

"You are not one to talk of fraternity for these transgressions you have committed," Al Mualim said, his blind eye narrow. "You have taken innocent blood, exposed yourself as the traitor you are, and you have betrayed the Brotherhood. You will not live to see the end of this day, child."

" _I am the greatest fighter who ever lived!_ " Haras shouted, his voice echoing over the courtyard. "I have fought for you for _five years_ , and always you overlooked me for someone else. Well, look at me now! Your Order is in pieces at your feet, the village is dead, and still you think to _lecture_ me?" He waved his hand again, and Rashit was killed, his head rolling down the slope towards the gates.

"Another good man dies," Haras crowed, "and still you think yourself the old man on the mountain, above the petty squabbles of men! I am surprised. You taught me many things, Al Mualim, but patience was not one of them. Speak now, or I will cut out your tongue that you may speak no more! Your time is running out, old man. Tell me what you know of the artifact! Tell me where you are searching for it. It is a small price to pay to preserve what you have built here, no? Even if you found the artifact, what good would it do you, eh? You have neither the skill nor the _breeding_ to wield its full powers. In your hands it would be a powerful and seductive weapon, yes... but nothing more."

Al Mualim said nothing, merely leveled a calm gaze at his attacker, devoid of all emotion.

Altaïr continued his way around the parapet, only half listening to the words Haras was saying, his focus pinpointed to the walls of the citadel, one of the overhangs that was the perfect height. He would break his blade, but it would be worth it if he did it right. He pressed forward, his eagle awake and heightening his senses: sight, hearing, smell; everything was focused on that one overhang, and the opportunity it afforded him.

Fahd was killed. Curses, _curses_ on that traitorous cur whose desperate ambition had brought about this wanton slaughter. Altaïr jumped, hoping his shadow would not be visible from this high up, and pressed himself against the windowsill to steady himself. After a breath, he began to adjust his footing.

"There now!" Haras was saying. "Three men dead because _you_ refuse to talk. Your silence will be the death of you too, _Assassyun_." The word was a curse on Haras' lips. "My Master wants answers. And if he does not get them, he will gladly take your head!"

Enough of this farce. Altaïr leapt, adjusting his fall, hidden blade extended to its full length, and took deliberate aim as gravity pulled him towards his target. A white shadow, he fell upon his enemy and plunged his blade into the neck; the mail unable to stop the increased force of the blow that the fall had given him. The hidden blade snapped in twain, and Altaïr let Haras break his fall.

Silence hung in the air, the bloodlust fading from Altaïr's vision, and one hot breath escaped his lungs as the weight of the kill settled on him.

Haras grunted, still alive, but not for long. He looked up, recognizing Altaïr, and like Abbas his countenance turned spiteful.

"You put too much faith in the hearts of men, Altaïr," he grunted. "The Templars know the truth. Humans are weak, base, and _petty_."

A final confession? Altaïr could not deny the man a chance at closure. His true nature had at last come through: he saw humanity as weak, base and petty because _he_ was weak, base, and petty. His desperation for recognition by Al Mualim, and his frustration at not being promoted from apprentice had created this weak wretch of a man. Altaïr felt pity, and tried to impart wisdom. "No," he said softly. "Our Creed is evidence to the contrary."

"Ah..." Haras said, "perhaps I am not wise enough to understand, but I suspect the opposite. That I am too wise to believe such _rubbish_." With his final breath, he spat upon the assassin.

The moment was gone, and Altaïr stood, looking up to the Templars and their shocked postures.

And then, at some unseen signal, the four assassins who had breached the citadel and four others they had unearthed on their journey, appeared from seemingly nowhere and destroyed the rest of the Templars. Al Mualim, too, took advantage of the opportunity and grabbed a sword, savagely ripping a Templar to the ground and adding brutality by stabbing the carcass thrice before his rage could be dispelled. There was little time for talk after that, for, sword in hand, Al Mualim ordered the gates be opened, and the battle joined. A great, patriotic cry swelled from the citadel, and as one they all ran back to the village, and by sundown the Templars were gone.

That did not make the victory any sweeter. Bodies were lined up to be disposed of, Templar and Assassin alike, and the numbers were staggering for their Order, to say nothing of the civilians who were amongst the dead. Per Muslim tradition, they were buried as quickly as possible. Some traditions needed to be skirted, there were too many to bathe and wrap in burial shrouds, but everyone gathered to say _Salat al-Janazah_ , the prayer for the dead, and by morning a mass grave had been dug, Altaïr one of the diggers, and the bodies had been laid on their right side, and buried.

For three days everyone mourned, and Altaïr stuck to the highest points of the citadel, uncertain why all the pomp and circumstance was necessary. Was three days not extravagant? They were dead, what good did this period of remembrance do for anyone? He hid away, lost in his thoughts.

It was after the mourning, however, that Al Mualim himself summoned Altaïr. He stood at the upper library, Al Mualim pouring over a series of scrolls before standing, the strong light from the window behind him giving him an ethereal glow. "Altaïr, I wish to speak to you about your recent actions with Haras."

Altaïr ignored the instinct to stiffen. Had he done something wrong? Had he displeased the Master? Was there something different he should have done?

"You offered him a chance to salvage his dignity," he said, a hint of curiosity in his voice. "Why?"

Altaïr frowned. Was the answer not obvious? "No man should pass from this world without knowing some kindness."

"But he shunned your graces," the mentor pressed.

"As was his right," Altaïr answered. "Master, have I displeased you in some way?"

And, through the thick white beard, Al Mualim smiled, his milky eye soft for the first time in... Altaïr had never seen that eye look soft. He wasn't sure what to feel; something was happening, something important, but he couldn't tell what it was and energy was starting to fill him. He held himself still. "Altaïr," the master said, his voice filled with something, an emotion Altaïr recognized, something he saw many times in Jerusalem, in Baasir. "I have watched you grow from a boy to a man in so short a time, it fills me with as much sadness as pride."

… Pride? The great mentor, Al Mualim, the master of the order felt pride? In Altaïr? The assassin had thought himself invisible, one of many brothers. Al Mualim had no reason to track his progress after the incident of his boyhood... Something swelled in Altaïr, and he found his head lifting, daring to look his master in the eye, surprise clearly written on his face.

"I remember you as a boy, Altaïr. No child at your age would have the clarity of mind to come to me when a man had just killed himself before you. It takes a rare child to compartmentalize such a travesty, as you did with Ahmed Sofian. I knew then that you would do great things, it is why I assigned you to Baasir in Jerusalem; I knew he would draw out your potential. And now here you are, having deduced a way to reverse a total catastrophe. You fit your father's shoes as if they had been tailored to your feet."

Altaïr automatically looked down to his leather boots, his toes curling inside them. He did not know what to say, if he _should_ say something. He had never known he had made such an impression on the master, his heart seemed to pound in his chest and he could not explain why. Fighting the urge to smile was herculean.

Al Mualim took no notice of his struggle, instead continuing. "Your father's ultimate sacrifice was the work of a rare man. It gives me great peace of mind to know his most valuable trait was passed down to his son, and I look forward to seeing in what other ways you emulate him."

"... I did not know him well as a father," Altaïr finally managed to say. His mother had died giving him life, and his father was a brother of the Order, flitting from one mission to the next. The other children, Malik and Abbas and Zamil, had all joked that his last name, La-Ahad – son of none – somehow seemed appropriate. As a child he had never thought much of it, it was just a part of his life, and having a father meant little to him when he had friends such as Malik and Abbas. Even his death meant little to him, for he had seen so little of his father. It was not until that terrible night, when Abbas' father had confessed his sins to a startled Altaïr, when Al Mualim had explained the great the honor in his father's death, did he realize he might have missed... something. "He was an Assassin above all. His willingness to die to save Abbas' father from torture, it is a legend in these walls, and even as far as Jerusalem: the pinnacle of an Assassin's duty."

A pause fell between the two men, Al Mualim's aged face growing thoughtful, even reflective. "You too were born into this Order," he said slowly. "Do you regret it?"

The assassin frowned. What an odd question. "How can I regret the only life I have ever known?" he asked, curious where the master was heading with that question.

Al Mualim only smiled again, his age and his blind eye making it look sad, regretful. His response was almost wistful. "You may find a way, in time. And it will be up to you to choose the path you prefer."

The statement hung in the air, pregnant with something Altaïr did not understand.

Finally Al Mualim moved around his table, the light behind him taking away his ethereal presence and making him a man again. "Come, my boy... and ready your blade. You are now a master assassin, and I've work for you to do."

* * *

_I did not realize at the time that my Master, the man all the Brotherhood looked up to, was beginning to doubt our Creed. I did not realize at the time that he had begun his search for the Piece of Eden. I did not realize he had betrayed the very foundations of our Order. All I knew was that the man I had idolized – indeed, that all of us had idolized – had labeled me special. It was not long before Al Mualim replaced his beheaded seconds with a man named Harash, and I reported to the Master almost exclusively. That, too, inflated my sense of importance, and soon I was making the same mistakes the unfortunate Harash had made: arrogance._

_I paid for my sins dearly. And so did everyone around me._

* * *

  
Ezio gasped, blinking rapidly and dropping the circular key, the object rolling away. _Merda. Merda!_ He was breathless, gulping air and moving his hands about, flexing his fingers, counting to the full ten, pulling at his bracers and running his hands over his beard. For several minutes he simply reminded himself that he was _Ezio Auditore da Firenze, Il Mentore degli Assassini_.

At length, he finally managed to grunt. Getting up slowly made his body creak in several places, further reminding him of his age and marveling that he had felt so young again. Twenty-four! He walked down the aisles of books to pick up the fallen key, his back yelling at him as he did so, and he stared at the object with renewed intensity.

It was not the voice of the Apple, but the voice of _Altaïr_ that had been infused into this curious disk. It was... he searched for an appropriate name. It was a memory seal. Altaïr's memories were locked in these disks. That meant these were not only keys to Altaïr's library, they were also keys to Altaïr's very _soul_ , his greatest moments locked away to show future generations that... that what? What wisdom would these seals give him?

… When does a man become a man? Ezio remembered all too clearly the day he had become a man: the day his family swung from the gallows and he had to secret the remnants of his life away to safety. His life held only one direction after that day. But, then, unlike Altaïr, Ezio _had_ known a life outside the brotherhood. Did he regret his choices, as Rashid ad-Din Sinan had suggested? … Not the _choices_ , no, but Ezio felt that there was something lacking in his life, and it was pursuit of whatever it was that had led him on this quest. So then, this was an opening salvo, and introduction to the story Altaïr had to tell. Ezio marveled, wondering how Altaïr's story would unfold. The Mentor of old had spent little time on his life in his writings; he spoke of his sons and wife briefly, his earliest writings were of a dear friend named Malik, and he spoke in garbled hints of the greatest sin of his life, but the Codex was always incomplete, the words tantalizing, and the majority of the work was a meditation of the Creed itself: its tenets, its motto, its failings.

Ezio, too, felt suddenly grateful for his connection to his own father. However little he saw of Giovanni Auditore due to "banking," the time he had with his father was always poignant and meaningful. In some ways, Ezio was gifted in ways Altaïr was not, and that was not something he had been expecting to learn. He had always pictured Altaïr as this perfect person, a pinnacle of the Order and the Creed, wise beyond his years and always in charge. He was startled to realize Altaïr was a boy like everyone else, wanting to please his master, glowing at praise. Ezio was quickly revising his opinion of the author of the Codex, and he realized the folly of believing Altaïr to be anything other than a man, and he was suddenly curious to see what other moments of humanity the great Mentor would go through.

What happened next, he could not guess, but there was one thing he was absolutely certain of now.

The Templars could _never_ get their hands on these memory seals. The history of the entire Brotherhood was laid bare in these keys, and secrets such as these were not meant for all men.

Especially men who would bend these trinkets of wisdom for perverse purposes.

* * *

The next morning he checked in with the all the Assassins. The novices were coming along, Ezio's restructuring working well to improve their skills. The new locations of the dens were secure and the journeyman and apprentices were starting to learn faster. Meryem was finally understanding her calculations, so Ezio started her on more practical applications, giving her assignments that required tailing within certain distances or practicing her air assassinations.

Dogan, who had been getting intensive hand-to-hand and fighting skills with the brawling mercenary that Cenk had sent as a better fit for Assassins, and was doing much better. The lieutenant still enjoyed studying the money trails and hidden accounts, but he was now a far better fighter.

It was when he met with Yusuf's second in command one morning that Dogan rushed forward with worry all over his face. Dogan only bore that much worry under one circumstance.

"News of the traitor, Vali?" Ezio asked, stepping forward to meet him. "Have you found him?"

Dogan grimaced. "My old friend found us, _Usta_. Two of my apprentices were kidnapped last night on a safe errand they have done many times before."

" _Merda_."

"Vali found me in the streets looking for them this morning and demanded that we hand over our new dens to the Templars."

" _Hayir_ ," Ezio rejected the idea firmly. "We do not negotiate with men who use hostages as leverage. We hunt them down, and we eliminate them." Ezio put a hand on Dogan's shoulder. "Even if they were once old friends."

Dogan lowered his head and nodded. "We must search Galata. We have little time to waste."

"We must, but you will stay with me," Ezio replied. "I can find them faster than you."

After informing Yusuf, together they climbed to the spire of a mosque and Ezio called on his eagle for help. Much as he had once in San Gimignano, he searched the skyline until he saw the sparks of gold he needed to know where to look.

"They are being held near the old den," Ezio said. "Almanzor can call the city guards for us and it will keep him safe." They both took off at a brisk pace. "Did Vali show any signs of knowing about the new den location?"

" _Hayir_."

"Good."

The first apprentice was two streets away from Almanzor's candle shop, and by then Ezio and Dogan were hunting with half the Assassins of the den with them. Dogan and the bulk of their force stayed to the roofs. Ezio and some of the inexperienced apprentices stalking the streets with grim determination that their fellow Assassins would be saved.

The shop Ezio lead them to was abandoned, and a hefty Byzantine was guarding the door, though he didn't bear the usual Byzantine armor, that would be suicide in Galata. But his arrogant bearing, coupled with his strong build, and compounded by his Greek features made it obvious that he was the enemy. Ezio let out an eagle whistle, and Dogan came soaring down from above, landing on the Byzantine with his hidden blade plunging deep into the soft exposed tissues of the neck. People screamed and started running, but it was a clear announcement that Byzantines would not be welcomed.

The apprentice inside had only one guard, who was quickly dispatched by a journeyman. Sadly, the apprentice was unconscious, a large bleeding lump to the head the clear culprit. "Get her to Mazhar," Ezio said as calmly as he could manage.

Their force swiftly went to the next apprentice, almost a mile away. The shop was also abandoned, but two Byzantines were disguised in front and blocking any from looking too closely.

Ezio had already declared that they were unwelcome, and he wasn't sure he wanted to risk further exposure. But eager-to-show-off Kasim was leaping down from above and performed a textbook double air assassination. Unfortunately the guards inside were prepared for this, and six in full Byzantine armor poured forward out of the building to engage Ezio and his forces.

They fought for longer than Ezio would have liked. Though the Byzantines were the aggressors, this didn't feel right. It felt more like a delaying tactic. Something was wrong.

"Byzantium is dead and so are you!" came a shout as Ottoman city guards came around a corner, one of Dogan's apprentices slipping into the crowds after apparently having gotten them.

Ezio whistled and the Assassins disengaged, letting the Ottomans take over. Ezio and Dogan rushed into the building to find the last missing apprentice. She had clearly not been treated well, as she held her arm close to her chest, the break clearly painful.

"Was it Vali?" Dogan asked, rushing forward to help.

" _Usta_ ," she winced. "You have fallen for a ruse. He captured us to draw you away from our headquarters. Vali will be on his way there now!"

" _Merda!_ " Ezio swore. "Do you know if Vali has told the Byzantines _where_ our headquarters is?"

The apprentice gave a pained smile. " _Hayir_ ," she said. "He was firm that he wouldn't say anything until he could lead enough men. They'd get lost in the tunnels without his guidance."

Small graces then.

"Let's go."

It was a race across Galata. They all sped as fast as they could. One apprentice was sent to find Ottoman guards and bring them to Galata tower, and another was sent to get the rest of the Assassins from the Galata den.

Vali had thankfully miscalculated. He'd assumed that the Assassins were centered around headquarters. Only the least trained and the injured were kept at the derelict mosque, or those who had lost their den. The best Assassins who'd survived the Little Judgment were out at the dens doing what they could and what they did best. And Ezio had all of those from the Galata den with him and on their way.

People were settling into their midday prayers as they raced through the streets and over the rooftops. Thankfully Galata was mostly European, so there weren't any reprimands shouted at them to get to prayers as there might have been south of the Halich. Finally, as they reached the base of Galata tower, there were sounds of fighting. Racing around the massive tower, they found battle in the streets, the injured Assassins and the youngest novices were in the streets, wielding swords and throwing knives and crossbows against a larger Byzantine force, Yusuf shouting instructions as he ducked swords and axes. Ezio shouted a rallying cry and Assassins rained down from the rooftops onto the unsuspecting Byzantines, wiping out a third of the forces in one sweep and turning the tide. Hopefully the rest of the den's forces would arrive because while Ezio and Yusuf outnumbered the Byzantines, they had weaker fighters by far. Already, Dogan and Meryem were starting to pull the novices aside to get them hidden while Ezio and Yusuf continued to bark out orders.

Fighting continued and the Byzantines were gaining the advantage again as they realized they weren't up against fully trained Assassins. But thankfully, the rest of the Galata den dropped down from above, taking out half of the remaining Byzantine forces. The fresh fighters provided a demoralizing turn for the Byzantines, who none of the Assassins had let escape to tell of where their headquarters were located.

Inside Ezio's mind, however, his eagle screeched. He looked around and on the roofs he saw Vali racing ahead to the abandoned mosque.

In one smooth motion, Ezio fired his hidden gun, making Vali duck and stumble. Dogan, who had ended up by his side growled.

"You are a canny soldier, Ezio!" Vali shouted, barely heard over the fighting surrounding them. "But you alone are not enough to save this city!"

Clearly Vali didn't have a high opinion of Yusuf.

"I will follow from the roofs," Dogan shouted, launching himself from the fight and up to the roofline.

Ezio followed on the empty streets, trusting Yusuf to lead the Assassins to victory and knowing that the Ottomans would ensure that the Byzantines were in for a very bad day. Realizing that he was being followed, Vali cut away from going to the Assassin's mosque and instead headed back around Galata, hoping to lose them. Ezio fired his hidden gun again, and Vali ducked once more behind the roofline to avoid the bullet.

Growling, Ezio continued forward, cursing that he couldn't reload and run at this pace, cursing the setting sun and lengthening shadows, and cursing that he couldn't climb without losing his target.

But then, seemingly from nowhere, Dogan rushed up behind the traitor and tackled them both off the roof. Vali fell, unable to right himself and landing hard on the street. Dogan caught the edge of the roof, righted himself, then dropped from above to air assassinate Vali.

Ezio caught up and stood, observing.

Dogan had tears streaming down his face, sorrow at killing an old friend evident.

Vali grimaced, gasping for breath, clutching his open abdomen as the blood freely flowed. "Once," he gasped, "your Creed was as vital to me as air and water..." he coughed, spraying blood on the street. "But when the Turks marched into Wallachia, killed my idol Vlad Tepes, and you _Suikastchi_ did nothing to stop it, how could I continue to believe?"

Dogan shook his head.

"If a man's philosophy does not let him protect his people, his home, and his family... what good can it do for the world?"

"Oh, my old friend," Dogan said softly. "Vlad Tepes was a Templar. We did not interfere because it was our chance to kill him. Ishak _Pasha_ dispatched him and rid the world of his evil."

Vali's face slackened in surprise, grimaced in regret, before twisting in denial. "I do not believe you," he gasped.

Dogan wiped his eyes. " _Huzur ichinde yatsın_ ," he said softly, words Ezio had spoken so often himself, as the former Assassin breathed his last breath.

There was silence in the darkening streets.

Dogan closed Vali's eyes.

Ezio stepped forward and put a hand on the massive shoulder. "Come. We must see to our injured."

" _Evet._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (fangasm) ALTAIR! WE MISSED YOUUUUUUUU!
> 
> (LOL) After writing three novelizations from Ezio's POV, we have grown fond of him in our own way, but he still pales in comparison to Altair for us, and we both just oogled the idea of writing him again. It was a challenge to write his memories for various reasons at different times. This particular memory was difficult because of where Altair was in his character arc: i.e. this was before his arrogance of AC1, before he was noticed by Al Mualim and given special treatment etc. He is at his most socially awkward - though really he's always socially awkward, he won't understand people until much much later :P. There was also the headache of establishing his backstory with Abbas; we've made a point to try and write these so that anyone can pick them up and follow them without having played the games or read the previous fics. That's particularly hard because there is a lot of background that needs to get dumped, and not to do it in a boring recitation of facts which this does unfortunately have at points but... Altair! It's sooooooooo good to see you again!
> 
> Though Atlair dominates this chapter - indeed he kind of dominates every chapter he's in - we also get to see our weak attempt at explaining why Ezio goes to Sofia for decoding the totally un-explained mcguffin of the map and the connection to the books and why the gameplay makes us look for them. They barely touched it in the game and we... er, well we tried. Whenever you see the kitchen sink plot in this fic it boils down to "we tried."
> 
> Muslim Lesson: Much like Catholicism has the liturgical year, Islam, too, has its own calendar. Unlike Christianity, however, Islamic calendar is lunar. What this means is that when the major holidays happens can't be easily pinpointed. Where Christmas is always December 25 and Easter is always in spring, Ramadhan and Maal Hijra shift about two weeks each year.
> 
> We had to do some very tedious math to figure it out, but roughly for this fic, Ramadhan started at the end of March while Ezio was scaling Masyaf, and ended with Eid al-Fitri at the tail end of April. We fudge the dates a little to have Ezio arrive on the last day of that holiday, to show Constantinople at its best. Eid ul-Adha is the beginning of July, and the end of July is Mal Hijra, the New Year. In 1512 Ramadhan shifts to the middle of March, with Eid al-Fitri in the middle of April, and Eid ul-Adha would be right around Ezio's birthday.
> 
> Next chapter: a more intimate introduction to Suleiman.


	6. A Royal Banquet

Desmond looked up at the dull colors of the skies. Why was everything so washed out on the island? He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. The Animus had found him and tried to purge him again; that was the... how many times had this happened so far? His mind felt fuzzy, and for a moment he wondered if it was possible to feel the Bleeding Effect from _ inside _ the Animus.

He looked over to the gate, trying to psyche himself up for going back in, but he saw Clay sprawled on his back; legs propped up against the gate and staring up at the bleak sky.

"I can never figure out which is worse," Clay said, "Starting over and over and over, or reaching the top only to fall."

"I don't understand," Desmond said, shifting to sit closer to his companion.

Clay looked up, an unreadable smile on his face. "It's so bright and cheery here," he said. "It screams 'peace and tranquility,' warm sunshine and flowers like some freakin' painting. I hate it here."

Desmond blinked, looking out over the bleak landscape, the grey skies, the depressing blue overtones. "... Is that what you see?" he asked.

"I'm more intact than you," Clay responded. "For now, anyway. When I was making, well, _me,_ I had figured out how to partition myself when I uploaded the data. The problem was I was too far gone by then. My body was bleeding even without the Animus, I had hacked my own DNA and didn't realize that the Animus helps regulate which ancestor I got to be. I thought uploading myself would be the fix, what I didn't realize was the security of the Animus for what it deems 'foreign' data. I've been trying to avoid being deleted ever since. That was when the cycle started. Technically, _you're_ in it, too, but your DNA is uploaded into the Animus, so instead of cycling through it all over and over and over and _over and over and over_..." his face twisted into something ugly, and he looked away before continuing. "Instead of cycling you get shunted to your DNA files. Bastard," he added in a bitter voice.

Desmond mused over Clay's revelations slowly, running his hands over his face, trying to compartmentalize it all. "So..." he drew out, chilled, "Everything's just... raw data. So am I still me... or am I some kind of computer program?"

"Who can say?" Clay said, shrugging and pulling himself into sitting up. With a quick twist he was leaning against the gate properly. "Does it even matter anymore?"

Desmond frowned, staring off into space.

"... I keep going to my funeral."

Desmond looked up, startled.

"Did you know what the papers said? 'Body of an American Man Found in Tiber River. Suicide Suspected.' Honoring the Borgia, I guess. Anyway, I keep seeing the grave. Green astroturf carpet, chairs, wreath, even the freakin' priest as he does his last rites schtick. 'The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the day.' Then I fall in the grave, and they close the coffin.

"Tell me something, how is it that I'm a program but I still see my funeral?"

Desmond had no idea how to answer that question. Clay was unusually talkative, at least about himself, or his program, or however that logic worked itself out in the end. Questions popped in and out of Desmond's head, and he didn't know which one was appropriate to ask or which one would set him off. Clay was still half crazy, changeable and completely liquid in his emotional range. He was lucid now, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Finally, he settled on something he thought was neutral.

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, fire away. It's not like the fate of the world doesn't hang in the balance, let's chew the fat. It puts off the cycle for a little bit, right?"

Desmond pressed his lips together, but dove forward. "Were you born into it? Or were you recruited?"

Clay turned and looked at him more fully, eyes narrow before leaning back to where he was. "Harold George Kaczmarek," he said. "Contractor, builder, heir apparent to an obnoxiously long line of engineers. Blue collar to the bone, determined that his son would follow the family business. Five years old I tell him I want to be an astronaut. You know what he says? He looks over to the kitchen and says to Mom, 'Did you hear your son? The kid wants to be a spaceman.' He was a contemptuous, narrow-minded, domineering old fart. 'You're retiling the roof at noon, Clay.'

" 'But I'm working on a history paper.'

" 'Let it slide. The foreman's son just finished engineering school and he's pocketing 60k a year. Now, that's where the money is.' " Clay snorted, shaking his head. "Old man thought he knew everything, scoffed at anything resembling original thought. God, I hated that fucker."

Desmond could relate. And _how_ he could relate. All he could offer was a soft, "I'm sorry."

"That was when he found me."

"Who?"

"William."

Desmond stiffened.

" _Please, stop, I don't want to talk about it._ " Rebecca, her voice starting off distant and then getting closer. Desmond and Clay both involuntarily looked up, curious to the new conversation happening in the real world, the place neither could access, neither could touch.

" _I just want to know how much she shared with you. I need to figure out how much information is still viable._ "

" _She's DEAD damn it! Can't you just mourn like a goddamn normal person?_ "

" _There isn't time. Mourn later._ "

" _God I wish Shaun was here. Leave me alone!_ "

And the voices trailed off, Rebecca and Desmond's father leaving the... whatever place Desmond's body was. Not for the first time, he closed his eyes, trying to see if he could feel the Animus chair, the headrest, the position of reclining, the heat at the back of his head. Nothing. He was completely disconnected. He sighed.

"He's a prick when he's thinking about the mission, isn't he?" Clay said, still looking up at the sky. "So single minded, he thinks he's a machine. But _God_ , his pep talks were amazing."

… What?

… _What_?

"Wait, my _dad_ trained you to be an Assassin?"

"Recruited me too. I spent half my time hating his guts and half my time inspired by him. 'Clay Kaczmarek, few are offered the opportunity I now give you. Prove yourself, novice, and you will be one of us. Together, we will defend the free will of humanity from those who would steal it.' He could say it with a completely straight face, and you could tell he meant every word of it. 'We are not public figures and never submit ourselves to the hollow quest for fame. We move through clouded spaces. Beware the easy path. Knowledge grows only through challenge. They will throw obstacles in your path to distract you. But never lose sight of your goal. You have proven yourself worthy. Today, commit to uphold the pillars of our Creed. We are Assassins.' He said that when I took my Leap of Faith. Damnedest thing that ever happened to me. It's my best memory."

Clay turned to study Desmond again, eyes narrow, one knee coming up to rest his chin on. The gate glowed behind them, the unusual blocks still imposing and foreign.

"How about you?" he asked. "What was it like to be born into the Creed?"

"I... I don't... I lived on the Farm."

Clay raised an incredulous eyebrow. " 'The _Farm_ '?"

"The Farm. Yeah," Desmond replied, slightly defensive. "They called it the Farm. My parents, two dozen couples, some kids. A community, hidden away. Small houses in the Black Hills, clear skies, wood smoke, wind, and the stink of gasoline. Generators running, day and night. I remember we lived simply, almost like nomads: so far from everything, ready to pack up and go at the drop of a hat if we were discovered. If _they_ found us."

"If it was a farm, what did you grow?"

"... Nothing," Desmond answered. "It wasn't much of a farm was it? Not a proper farm. I mean we grew some food. I don't remember any animals though. Maybe a few dogs."

"And how did it feel to be an Assassin?"

"The Assassins..." Desmond started, but shook his head, looking for a better way to explain it. He had kept all these thoughts to himself for so long, bottled up and locked away, he wasn't sure if it was even _possible_ to talk about it. He tried regardless. "I was born into it. I didn't choose. It was like... a birthright. 'You are an Assassin,' they told me. What did that even mean? Ever since I was young, they never stopped saying it. 'You are an Assassin. You are an Assassin. And this is our Creed: Nothing is true.' What did that mean? A world without purpose? Without goal or direction? Without friendship or family or connections? And 'Everything is permitted.' _Everything_ is permitted? How much of everything constituted _everything_? With no boundaries? No moral compass? No 'truth'?

"I remember Dad, he always said the same thing: 'They're looking for us. And they will not stop until every one of us is dead.' I mean, yeah, I believed for a while, but I never _understood_. That's the trouble when you're born into something. Belief without understanding. Everyone was so serious. Scared, too. All that talk of Assassins and Templars. The end of the world. 'Live by the Creed, Desmond. Empower yourself.' I bought into it for a long time, but every man has his limit, I guess. I waited and waited and _waited_ for all their predictions, their worries, to happen; I waited to be attacked in the middle of the night, to see a stranger out in the hills, for _something_. But nothing happened and I just... I can't remember when I stopped believing. When I stopped caring." Desmond made a face, remembering the feelings and the confusion and the slow growth of bitterness. "God, it all sounded so stupid. I couldn't hear the word 'Templar' without laughing. And 'Assassin,' forget it... 'An ancient war,' they said. 'An endless struggle.' But I never cared. Who knew it was possible to bore a kid with _war_ stories? _War stories_!"

The absurdity of it all struck Desmond, and he almost started to laugh all over it. Everyone on the farm was so serious, so straight-laced about the end of the world and the threat of the Templars, and all with utterly _no_ evidence to prove their paranoia right. Desmond could remember seeing the patrols at night, walking the grounds to prevent intruders. He'd called out a few times, asked if they'd found any Templars recently, and they'd answer no so sincerely. It would send him to hysterics when he was a teenager. Then he would get lectured for not understanding the danger they lived under, the constant threat, and young Desmond could never find a way to express how he felt. "I guess I was... lonely. Alone in a crowd. If I could have told them that, maybe they would have listened. If only I could go back. If I could tell them, 'I'm sorry'..."

Silence fell between them, heavy. Clay twisted back onto his back and propped his legs up, looking up at the bleak sky that was so cheerful for him. Desmond adjusted his own position, recrossing his leg and holding his head in his hand. Now that he was starting to talk, more seemed to pour out of him as his thoughts skittered from one to the next.

"The morning bell. God, I hated that. Ringing five days a week, just before dawn. Up before the birds, me and the other kids. 'Come on, Desmond! Get up! No lagging.' Exercise: Mandatory. A dip in the creek to get clean. Then oats with butter, and apple juice for breakfast. Eughh." He could still taste it; the apple juice was okay, but oats and butter? He stomach twisted just at the thought of it. "I must have walked a million miles before I was ten. But... it was nice. I liked those days out in the hills: the hush, the open air, the deep dark of the forest, the crunch of boots on the dry ground. I always wondered if we could see Rapid City, but Dad said it was too far east to see. It was... is idyllic the right word? I was young and times were simple and I never saw signs of war."

"Everyone remembers their childhoods like that," Clay said. "Unless you have a dad like mine. But even with him, I remember running through parks, shrieking at cockroaches, smelling Mom when she was baking for the holidays. It's all happiness until you grow up. And then you fight the war."

Desmond shook his head, emotions he had repressed for far too long bubbling up.

 **"** What is this war about?" he asked. "What are we fighting for? I kept asking that. They never told me much. Just enough. They kept things shrouded, an air of secrecy, for my own good, they said. So we stayed hidden away in the Black Hills. If anyone ever knew who we were, or what we were doing, there'd be trouble. Dad said the same thing over and over: 'They're everywhere Desmond. They have their hands in everything. Politics, war, finance, high-tech, agriculture. People are asleep, and while they dream, Abstergo builds a nightmare.' Christ, _Abstergo_. The first time I saw that name, it was on the side of a bottle of ibuprofen. Mom laughed when I asked her about it. Can't get away, she said. 'Well, we pick our battles, I guess. So many to choose from.' "

He looked to Clay. "She told me the average American household contains three dozen Abstergo owned products at any given moment. If you tried to purge them from your life completely, it would be a full time job. 'At last,' I thought. 'Now we're getting somewhere.' The global conspiracy, Abstergo. Fingers in every pie: Governments, corporations, universities. Mom and Dad made it sound so scary." Desmond paused, remembering conversations he had as a preteen for the first time in years. All the products in the Farm, the supplies that they bought, and the labels and the "Subsidiary of Abstergo Industries." They talked about shell corporations and secret bank accounts, corporate espionage and lobbying politicians, sometimes outright buying them. A thirteen year old kid didn't understand that, _couldn't_ understand that. A thirteen year old's world revolved around schooling, training, running in the woods and bathing in the creek; a thirteen year old's world is so _small_ , and corporations and government and pharmaceuticals were too abstract to understand. Oh, it _sounded_ scary but...

"But it didn't _feel_ scary. An enemy has to have a face. But all I could see was a bottle of painkillers. I couldn't be scared of a _label_. What scared me was the _training_. Sweat, tears, bloody lip every once in a while," he gestured to his scar, so reminiscent of Altaïr and Ezio he sometimes got confused when he looked in the mirror. "Focus, they said; strength, speed, agility, no excuses, they said. How far were they going to push me I wondered. And I couldn't _stand_ it! What was the point? For years and years I thought some major catastrophe was on the horizon. I didn't know what to expect. All Dad would ever say was, 'One day you'll understand. You'll see. All this unease, will be worth something. I promise.' They kept _so much_ from me. If they'd been more open with me. If they'd shown me things, taken me places. Maybe it would have made more sense..."

"It sounds like they only wanted to protect you."

Clay said it, of course, but Desmond could only hear Lucy using those exact words, back when he was a captive at Abstergo – the label on a painkiller that couldn't scare him – he remembered how tentative she was at first, and how strong she proved to be, the anchor he clung to in his slow descent to madness. From minute one she was on his side, making sure he rested, he didn't stay in the Animus for too long – even when he _wanted_ to go back in – she was always by his side, quiet comfort. She was right; they were only trying to protect him. He couldn't have it both ways: he couldn't be desperate for the full story and then get it at an age where he couldn't understand it. Dad might have said more, sure, but that didn't mean that Desmond would have understood it, and that would only have made Desmond more frustrated; he knew himself _that_ much at least. Lucy was right, _Dad_ was right, and he had responded by...

"Do you know why I had to kill her?" he asked. "Lucy?"

No response. Desmond looked up to see Clay was gone, small flickers of light in his wake.

Sighing, Desmond got up and took a deep breath before walking into the gate.

* * *

With the traitor Vali dead, and Yusuf's discreet investigation into his assassins over, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. The injuries from the fight, however, thinned out an already beleaguered brotherhood. More than anything else, Yusuf's guild needed time; time to train, time to heal, time to grow into themselves. The Byzantines, it seemed, were unwilling to give them that.

The last of the dens had been relocated, however, and everyone crossed their fingers that a small reprieve – even a month – would settle on their shoulders. Ezio and Yusuf sat together at night, the Florentine with his wine and the Turk with his goat's milk, figuring out how to redistribute their numbers (again) to better cover the city. "Each den needs its own captain," Ezio said. "Preferably a woman."

Yusuf looked up. "A woman? Why?"

The greying grandmaster offered a mysterious grin. "Have you never seen a mother protect her children?"

" _Evet_ but what does that-" Yusuf's eyes widened as he realized the gravity of what Ezio was suggesting, and he burst out laughing. "You always manage to surprise me, _Usta_ da Firenze. This is why you are _usta_. _Guzel_ , I'll send some women your way to assess."

"Meryem would be a good choice once she makes _suikastchi_. It's very rare for someone to be able to change gender like she does, she would teach the skill to others. Also, Sila has potential, if one can ever get her to think well of herself. Dogan is already head of the second den here in Galata, and he's done wonderfully in the interim."

"What about Azize?"

"... No," Ezio said. "Her skills would serve better elsewhere."

"Agreed. And Kasim?"

"Is not a woman, but even without that, he's too eager, too quick to prove himself. His mind is consumed with how others think of him and impressing those around him, he won't have the best interests of a den at heart."

"I see," Yusuf said running his hands through his oily hair and drinking his milk. "I wonder about Sila. She's much too timid, but you're right that she's the fastest runner we have – even compared to the men. I have another girl, Fusun. Kizzy recommended her some years ago; she's a brilliant dancer and acrobat and singer. She can get into almost anywhere as a result; rather like Meryem's opposite. One stands out, the other is invisible. She's also gentle as a dove," he added with a wry grin. "I'd also like to see Fusun placed near the Romani, it would keep the connection strong, and she can pick up on things that fly right over me."

"Even with the _bella donna_ Kizzy to keep you appraised?"

Yusuf coughed and said, "We hardly talk about the intricacies of the Romani when we're together."

"Have you any children?"

Yusuf laughed again, warmly. "I'm too young for children, Ezio. I'll have them later."

Ezio only grinned, leaning back in his chair and refilling his wine.

"Somehow that reminds me," Yusuf said. "Have I introduced you to Piri _Reis_?"

Ezio frowned, trying to remember the rank. ...Admiral? "No," he said slowly.

Yusuf smacked his palm against his forehead, cursing lightly. "I am a terrible host," he said. "Tomorrow, we go."

"... Go where?"

"Kapalıcharshı."

Their conversation waned after that, and soon they were disappearing to their own chambers for sleep, or, in Ezio's case, writing a letter.

_Claudia,_

_I am now in possession of one of the Masyaf keys. And better still, I have discovered a map – encoded with signs and symbols – which I believe will lead me to the remaining keys. Its full meaning is a mystery to me, but I am thankful to have a met a Venetian woman willing to help me decipher it. With her help I can find the other keys, and from what I can discern the Templars have no such map._

_The key itself is a thing of marvel. I fear to put too much detail to parchment, but it is a curious disc that likely is from Those Who Came Before, and it presented... a vision to me. It is only a piece of a whole, I suspect I will need all the keys to understand the message that is to be conveyed, but such a revelation – even in part – strengthens my resolve to prevent the Templars from getting these keys. The wisdom they contain alone might be invaluable, and that is even before they are used to open the library in Masyaf._

_But I must not overstate my successes. The Templars still hold one key hostage, and if I am to recover it, I may need more help than the Assassins can provide. Yusuf and his men are spread very thin, this cannot be overstated. The Little Judgment has cost them dearly, and it has been one crisis after the next since then. Even now, they are recovering from the recent shock of learning that one of their own had faked his death and was selling den locations to the Byzantines. I have done and will continue to do what I can, but the greatest thing they need is time to grow, and that is something no one can provide._

_So, if I am to avail that final key that the Byzantines have, I may have to look outside the guild. If I can make a friend in the Ottoman court, my access to the secrets of the city will improve greatly..._

He looked up, looking over what he had wrote, and moved on to lighter topics, talking about the men and women of the order in Constantinopoli, and the skills and contacts and flavors that were unique to the city.

The next morning Yusuf came in with a cheery, "Happy New Year!" which confused Ezio to no end until Yusuf explained to him that Muslims had a different calendar. "It is 1511 to you, _evet_? Fifteen-hundred eleven years since the prophet Christ was born. Well, it's been nine-hundred thirty three years since _our_ prophet, Muhammad – peace be upon him – enlightened us. You Christians are old and grey compared to us! Anyway, that's not why I'm here."

For Yusuf had a new face, a woman in her late thirties but still managed to look young and vivacious. She was dressed as a Romani: over the shoulder shirt, beads and earrings, and scarfs tied to her hips. Barefoot and utterly _tiny_ , she looked up to the towering Ezio and narrowed her eyes. "I hardly see what _you_ can offer me," she said flatly. She turned to Yusuf. "I don't think I really need him, _Usta_ , he'll just get in my way."

"See?" Yusuf said. "Gentle as a dove!"

Neither Ezio nor Fusun, as she was introduced, were amused.

"Come, then, we'll see the _reis_ , and you can learn about our little hobby."

Ezio frowned as they began to set out. "Hobby? You mean bomb making? How can an admiral help with bombs?"

"You'll see, _Usta_ da Firenza," Yusuf said lightly.

Once more they were at Kapalıcharshı, with its pointed arches, silken drapes, locked chests, and shouts of commerce. Fusun stayed outside, swinging her hips and starting a dance to earn a little money. Her departure made Ezio realize that there were no women in the bazaar, none of the colorful silks and patterns and _hijab_ were anywhere to be seen. He asked Yusuf about it.

"Oh, that," Yusuf said lightly, waving it away with a hand. "Women aren't allowed in a man's social life. And haggling over a cup of tea is considered social life."

Ezio was aghast, and Yusuf was quick to explain. "We don't like it any better than you do, _Usta_ , but some traditions are very hard to break. The Ottomans are nomads, and even if that weren't a factor, we Muslims want to protect our women from raping Crusader Christians like you. No offense," he added with an ironic grin. "Men know their own urges, Ezio, and Islam, at least, asks us to control them. Men and women both try to prevent those urges from turning to sin: men lower their gazes and women cover themselves, it's also why women are kept separate, to avoid the temptation, and over the centuries it's become... this." He added a soft chuckle. "On the up side, we believe that women are considered closer to Allah than men, and men are judged by how well they treat their wives. So at least our subjection of half our population had good intentions, no?"

Ezio's knee-jerk reaction was to call it appalling, to reject it wholesale and say that Italia treated women better than _this_ , locked up jewels to be hidden away from the world, but in truth he could not say that Italia _did_ treat its women better. Caterina Sforza, an excellent ruler who should have been lauded by those around her, had her lands taken away from her by the Borgia, and della Rovere, the pope's replacement, didn't _dare_ give back lands to some _woman_. There was, too, the simple fact that women only had three options in life: the church, the brothel, or a wife. Even that, he learned, had its prices, and so he could, at least in part, understand the intentions of early men who were _slightly_ more enlightened. He still took offense that Yusuf thought _Christianity_ was to blame.

"We 'raping Crusader Christians' have our own commandment," he said, slightly put out, "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife."

Yusuf openly laughed. " _Evet, evet,_ I won't fight you on theology. For us _Suikastchi_ it's largely academic at any rate – though don't tell _sheikh_ Azize I said that. Anyway, we're here now. I'll let you go in first, I have a contact here that I haven't seen in a few weeks. Need to keep friends close, right?"

Yusuf slowly disappeared into the crowds, and Ezio entered what had to have been the only door in the _entire_ Kapalıcharshı. Inside was a narrow, oddly shaped room, almost a hall, which turned sharply to the right and opened up slightly to more traditional dimensions. Incense filled the tiny space, carpets made the room warm, even soft, and as Ezio made the turn, at the far end was an older man, head wrapped in a turban, pouring over an exquisitely detailed piece of parchment that looked to be a map of some kind.

"Piri _Reis_?" he asked politely.

The man looked up, eyeing Ezio with a frown. " ' _Reis_?' Did Yusuf Tazim send you? That sounds like one of his exaggerations."

" _Sì_. … You are not an admiral?"

"Ha, hardly," the man said; Piri seemed to have a perennially hoarse voice, most likely from shouting orders, assuming he was a seaman. The turbaned man leaned back in his chair and studied Ezio again. "Ah. You must be that _Floransali_ he's been yammering on about. Lothario?"

"Ezio."

Piri shook his head. "I don't hear the difference. So, what brings you here?"

Ezio openly shrugged. "Yusuf was said to introduce us, but a contact in the Kapalıcharshı caught his attention and he disappeared. He did, however, make a cryptic comment that you were the one to talk to about bombs."

"Ach, that man," Piri grunted, making a face. "He is a talker. _Evet_ , I am a navigator in the _Sultan's_ navy, currently on leave these last eight years to study cartography. But through my soldiering, I have also gained an appreciation for artillery and explosives. And it has served the _Suikastchi_ well. It gives us an edge. I carry many kinds of bombs, for _Suikastchi_ only of course. Lethal, tactical, diversionary. Everything you see here is for sale... if you can prove you know how to use it first."

Ezio smirked and put on full Florentine irony. "I am eager to learn."

"Well," Piri replied, equally ironic, "no one is stopping you. Just let me know."

For the next hour Piri and Ezio were bent over the "admiral's" desk as he showed Ezio the intricacies of making bombs: different casings had different effects, there were at least three different types of powders to create different sizes of explosions, and of course, what made bomb-making so genius, was mixing in different ingredients to create different effects. Ezio had seen some of those effects, and now that he understood how it was done, he found himself more than slightly appreciative of Piri's intellect and skill.

"I used my first bomb when I was in my late teens," the seaman explained. "I was sailing the Mediterranean under an unrecognized flag, calling myself a privateer with my uncle."

Ezio smirked. "The _Francesi_ would say _corsair_."

"No, they would say, ' _Mort aux hérétiques_!' "

Ezio winced. "Your French is _terrible_ ," he groaned.

Piri was unapologetic. "I am a sailor, not a linguist." He went back to his point. "I do miss the days of rough ocean travel, the sea spray and the rolling waves. One day soon I will take to the sea again. But until then, I am here for my _Suikastchi_. Here is your bomb. Use it with great care." A small bomb with a hard casing was passed to Ezio. "It is very flashy, very powerful. Yusuf calls it a thunder bomb, but then he's always whimsical when he chooses to name things."

"I have noticed," Ezio said smirking, thinking of his personalized title of _Usta_ da Firenze, or Piri's sudden promotion to-

" _Reis_! Always good to see you!"

"Tazim!" Piri shouted with a false air or irritation. "You lying scoundrel, I told you to stop calling me _reis_ , now even these foreigners think I'm something I'm not."

"It can't be helped, _Reis_ ," Yusuf replied, utterly unapologetic, "I recognize greatness whenever I see it."

Piri snorted and deliberately ignored him, looking over the map he was artfully creating. He couldn't hide the slight grin of his features, though.

"Did he tell you he's studying cartography?" Yusuf said lightly, walking up to Ezio and patting his shoulder. "What he's _really_ doing is creating a world map! That sailor, Colo-something or other, he brought the charts and maps back with him and now that everyone and their brothers are trying to see how round the world actually is, all sorts of new information keeps coming in. _Shehzade_ Selim asked the _reis_ to consolidate all that information and make a world map. Imagine! All from some Spanish sailor."

"Christoffa Corombo. He was _Italian_ ," Ezio corrected. "He was nearly killed by the Borgia because the Templars didn't want the old world to know that a new world existed. The man was an _idiota_ and naïve and too quick to accept money without checking the hand that was offering it to him."

Both men stared at Ezio, wide eyed, before Yusuf once again laughed affably. "You are a piece of _history, Usta_ da Firenze! The world would be lost without you."

"I very much doubt that," Ezio said, feeling that he was somehow being made fun of. "Was there something else?"

"Actually, yes," Yusuf said lightly. "Fusun is tailing a merchant my contact pointed out to me. There's an underground guild that wants to get off the ground, one with different classes of merchants that work together to undercut the prices of everyone else. It was suggested most strongly that the Kapalıcharshı would not favor such an event."

" _Bene_ ," Ezio said, fingering the bomb Piri had just given him as an exemplar. "I have just the tool we need."

An hour later they were well away from the bazaar, Yusuf picking up scarfs that had been innocuously dropped that led them to Fusun, dancing amongst a crowd and singing in a beautifully sultry voice. She did not have the angelic quality of Elda, the Italian singer of the Brotherhood, but there was an earthy vibration, a hint of promise, that made her just as good. When she finished her number Yusuf broke through the crowd, clapping and whistling.

" _Hanımefendi_ ," he said warmly, offering a gentlemanly hand. "I would be most honored if you taught me how to dance like that."

"I'm not your _hanımefendi_ ," Fusun said, pouty and chilled, "At least, not until you offer to pay for such a lesson."

"You drive a hard bargain, _hanımefendi_ ," Yusuf said, nodding sagely and pulling out a small collection of coins. "Let us go somewhere private where you can teach me."

"As you wish."

Inside of ten minutes the three were seated at a bench, Ezio and Yusuf on either side of Fusun as she explained what she saw and heard. She confirmed that the men in the courtyard behind them were all members of the underground guild, and that they were about to set their prices. Numbers were discussed next, the size of the courtyard, how many men were inside, and how to proceed. Ezio offered his "thunder" bomb, and all three agreed it was the best idea. The fuse was lit, Yusuf tossed it over the stone wall fence, and then all three ran down the street. The explosion did indeed sound like thunder, and the cries of agony made Ezio wince at the damage they had wrought. He turned as the other two darted ahead, and offered a soft, " _Requiescat in pace, mi dispiace._ " Suddenly tired, he walked down the alley and waited for his companions to notice he had slowed down.

* * *

The next day Fusun was once again his escort about the city. The masons Tahir and Kadmus needed supplies, and the mercenary Cenk wanted Ezio to oversee some fights at the southernmost tip of the city to show off his legendary prowess; this on top of further assessing Fusun's abilities through her perennially sour attitude, and trying to schedule time to talk to the timid Sila to learn why she was so self-conscious, checking in on Meryem as she taught some of the orphans to switch genders with their clothing, and trying to avoid Kasim as he once again tried to get Ezio's favor.

… So much for a private pilgrimage.

He stopped off at the bookshop to see how the Venetian woman, Sofia, was coming along with transliterating the map's symbols. She had expressed that that came first before she tried to decode it, but language that old was _very_ hard to come by, and some of the lettering looked funny, and so on and so forth. Her energy and enthusiasm for the project injected some energy into Ezio, and he allowed himself to enjoy the endless roofs of the city as he traversed from one corner to the next with his list of errands.

"Wait, _Usta_ ," Fusun said, skidding to a halt. She was in her assassin garb today, and looking over the lip of wooden shingles down to a herald. "This might be important."

It took a while for the herald to cycle through all his topics for the illiterate crowds, but eventually he began to repeat himself, and Fusun tensed in anticipation.

"Holy Bayezid, _sultan_ of the Sublime Porte, has defeated the treacherous Selim's forces; the coward Selim escaped to Crimea, but the _sultan_ is following with utmost aggression. _Shehzade_ Selim has apparently fled to Kefe, news is scarce at this time but there are unconfirmed reports of soldiers converging on his position. It is feared he raised an army there to join battle with his mighty father. Furthermore, _Shehzade_ Ahmet, after the death of the rebel Shakulu, has declared himself _sultan_ of Anatolia, and his forces have taken the capital Konya. All of the Sublime Porte waits anxiously for word from their holy _sultan_.

"Fear not the Stewards of Byzantium, they toil for the good of all, they labor for harmony for all peoples and the return of just law, strong trade, and equity for all. Good Christian ideals of brotherly love, equality and justice: these are the cornerstones of the Stewards of Byzantium's creed. Can you not feel the love in all their acts? The new commander of the local Byzantine Stewards wished to enlist all men capable of bearing arms in a new district wide militia."

"... 'Stewards of Byzantium?' Does such an organization exist?"

"Templars," Fusun said, eyes intent. "Those notices are everywhere, nobody listens to them. The news on the _sultan_ , however, _that_ _Usta_ will want to know. I need to go. You can handle shopping, I assume?"

And with that tart comment she was darting over the roofs, hooking her hookblade on a clothesline and zipping down the roofs at impressively high speed. Suddenly left alone, Ezio fought the urge to balk and instead turned his intense gaze to the herald. He could see no red with his eagle, but he wanted to know where the "Stewards of Byzantium" missives came from. Hiding his packages on a shaded balcony, he made his way down to street level and slowly joined the crowds. He listened for a while, before stepping up on the platform and pulling out his purse. "I have a question," he said lightly jingling the coins in his purse and making the herald's eyes grow in greed. "Where do you get the list of ordinances you are to read?"

"From the Sublime Porte," he said, hand instinctively reaching out before he caught himself.

 _That_ thought was disturbing. The imperial court? "Are you sure?" Ezio asked, his gaze intense and his rich baritone menacing.

"Well, not completely. The Sublime Porte compiles its lists and distributes them to couriers and then to the heralds themselves. Individuals can submit their own missives and pay a fee to have them decreed, or couriers can be bribed to add new missives."

"And heralds are incorruptible?" Ezio asked, jingling his purse again.

"Of... of course," the herald said, but his greed finally won out, "B-but, some compensation for informing a man of such great esteem is usually customary."

Ezio handed over the coin and disappeared to the crowds, picking up his parcels and sitting on the wooden shingles of the roof to think. It was disturbing to think that the Sublime Porte had a Templar in it, but though it was highly likely the "Stewards of Byzantium" messages were being paid out further down the chain, Ezio could not dismiss the possibility out of hand. If Byzantines _were_ in the Ottoman court, his attempts to make a friend there suddenly became harrowing, and he would need to approach it differently. Similarly, he realized the Byzantines were well financed indeed if they could bribe these messages out to the city so thoroughly that assassins like Fusun didn't even pay it any mind. Where was their money coming from? Who was financing them? It might be a puzzle worth looking into, and he finally resolved to look up Yusuf and see what he thought of the idea.

Taking a moment to recognize where he was, he dropped back down to the streets and in the span of an hour found the newly located assassin den. Stopping in, he found a painfully young assassin named Obelius, one of Yusuf's rushed promotions after the Little Judgment, and dropped off his parcels to be delivered before asking where the _Usta_ da Constantinopoli was at the moment. Obelius didn't know, and so Ezio moved on to the next den.

Four dens later it was the supper hour and Ezio was feeling irritated that he couldn't find Yusuf when he needed him. The fact that the city did not believe in restaurants and he was utterly _starving_ did not help. He was currently at the southeast corner of the city, the Hippodrome rose out beyond the wooden roofs when the line of the Roman structure caught his eye. He saw men gathered at the top, and he knew of only one kind of people who liked heights like that. In half an hour he was up and joining the collection of assassins, the sun setting gloriously to the west and casting everything in golden light. Yusuf was there, sweating in the August heat, as was the sour Fusun, as was Dogan and Meryem. Dogan spotted him first and immediately bowed, the others quickly following suit.

Yusuf gave an affable greeting as he always did. "A pleasant surprise, Ezio. We should trade stories if I am not dead by this time tomorrow."

 _That_ made Ezio pause. "Is there a chance of that?" he asked, hoping it was one of Yusuf's many exaggerations.

But the Turkish assassin's face was grim, his brow deeply furrowed under his colorful headbands, and for the first time Ezio realized why the other man wore them so low; it was to hide the worry that Yusuf was constantly under. Deadpan, Yusuf explained the latest crisis. "We learned that the Byzantines are planning to infiltrate Topkapı Palace now that _Shehzade_ Suleiman has returned from his _hajj_. If they do strike, it will be tonight at the cultural exposition the _shehzadem_ has organized. We only found out this morning, and we haven't had a lot of time to prepare."

Ezio nodded, taking it in stride. "So what is our plan?"

Yusuf blinked, the comment surprising him, before a lazy, whimsical smile traced over his face. " _Kardeshim_ ," he said warmly, "this is not your fight, no need to snare yourself into the Ottoman affairs."

Ezio was openly touched by the sentiment and respect Yusuf, indeed all the assassins in Constantinopoli seemed to hold for him. But Ezio was quick to rationalize his need to come along. "This is personal for me as well as helpful to you, _kardeshim_. There is the concern that the Byzantines have enough money to buy off heralds and try and sell their story. The missives originate from Topkapı, if they have a man inside, it behooves us to get _ourselves_ into the palace as well. There are several fronts in which this can benefit you, as well as me. And, too, the Byzantines found a key beneath Topkapı Palace, and I would like to know how."

"Ezio," Yusuf countered, his voice tepid, even tentative, "we want to _protect_ our _shehzade,_ not interrogate him." It was obvious he didn't want to discourage the help, but he needed it to be done on his terms. Did he really think...?

Ezio shook his head, pulling up his old charm. "Trust me, Yusuf. I have dealt with royals before, I know how to be gentle. Nothing will come against you. Just tell me where to go."

Yusuf obviously hesitated, warring with himself, before he sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Allah knows I need the help," he muttered before straightening. "We're meeting at Topkapı's main gate. We plan to dress as entertainers and walk right in. Fusun will go and change into Romani clothes, but that won't work for all of us, obviously."

" _Bene._ I will find a disguise and meet you there."

And Yusuf's more natural, amiable nature bled through, a grin splitting his face and a laugh bubbling up from his belly. "Oh, no," he said. "I haven't had a chance to race you yet. I want to see if the aged master can still beat men in their prime."

Ezio answered with a grin. "As you wish," he said, before shrugging off his armor. Yusuf explained it was a nearly perfect straight shot to the main gate and all roof travel. Guards would likely be a problem, but the thought of a race was too enticing, and several other assassins were either placing bets or joining the race themselves.

"Ready?" Yusuf asked everyone as they got ready. A chorus of " _Evet,_ " was his reply.

And without any warning, cheating outrageously, Yusuf took off at a flat sprint, making everyone stumble to catch up. Ezio followed at a fast clip, overtaking half the pack before slowing down just enough to plot his route for the next several roofs. Once he was set he pushed to a full sprint, he shot past many more racers, darting up to a higher level roof, and then leaping over an alley to a lower roof. Landing in a tight roll, he sprang up and waited until he found his next route and followed that. The pacing prevented himself from pushing too hard, as well as choosing the best path to follow. The others fell from his awareness, and all he could feel was the joys of the run, the hookblade giving his bad shoulder more reach than he had in years, and he was exultant for a brief moment, before the palace wall appeared and he realized he had reached the end of the race. He landed on the parapet and immediately put his hands on his hips, working out a stitch he had developed and trying to catch his breath.

"Marvelous! _Marvelous!_ I wish Sila was here, it would have been an even contest if it was. Haha!" Yusuf was panting outrageously, and the two of them forced to wait a good ten minutes before the others caught up in small clusters; everyone was out of breath, and their faces were slightly exultant.

Ezio looked out over the edge of the wall. Below was an enormous open space, covered in grass and flowers and trees, a private park; parades could easily be performed here, and further south in the dying light Ezio realized that this was, in fact, _meant_ to be a parade ground, for Janissaries were camped out at the southernmost point. Janissaries also lined the main boulevard in their Sunday best to a secondary gate. This was the First Courtyard of Topkapı. Directly below was an impressive looking bale of hay, and a dozen horses nibbling on it waiting to be taken to the stables. Nodding, he took a Leap of Faith, and once he was out of the hay Yusuf followed, and then Dogan and then Meryem. As they were darting to the stables to hide, Ezio heard distinct words that made him still.

"What is it?" Yusuf asked.

"There are Italians here," Ezio replied. "And I think..." he took a few steps forward, and then he heard the music. "They are _minstrals_. I am going to enjoy this."

"Ohohoho!" Yusuf chuckled. "There is a story here."

"Less a story and more a necessity on behalf of Italians everywhere. Minstrels, they are the most aggressive form of beggar you can find; they will hound you doggedly with their music – more often than not some quickly thrown together rhyme about you that rhymes badly and does you a disservice. I have heard verses about white shadows, _il diavolo_ , vengeance, justice, and raunchy feats of ecstasy as minstrels tried to get me to pay them coin. Then they _whine_ , so incessantly when you ignore them or push them aside. Italians _hate_ street minstrels. Give us court minstrels, _real_ music any day of the week."

"Well then," Yusuf said grandly. "Let us help you in your sovereign duty to liberate these minstrels of their means of harassment."

The four assassins stalked the minstrels slowly, taking them out one by one and then dumping their freshly naked bodies in hay. When they were done, they gathered in the stables and changed. Meryem found one set of clothes that fit her perfectly, and with her dark curls tucked up in her cap she once again looked like a man. The men, however, had a much harder time. Dogan was too big for almost all of the outfits, and his wrists protruded noticeably from the sleeves. Ezio's clothes were tight across his chest and arms and the breeches had a noticeable hole that would make the evening _quite_ uncomfortable if he wasn't careful. Yusuf's clothes, too, were tight, most particularly about his breeches, and very little was left to the imagination. Meryem looked at them critically, before sighing and saying, "There's only so much a weaver like myself can do," and pulling out a needle and thread.

"No," Yusuf said, "There's no time left to make this perfect. Fusun is likely already inside; we need to get in the party and fan out and see if we can find the conspirators." He sighed. "I look ridiculous. I _feel_ ridiculous."

Ezio allowed himself to smirk. "Then you feel like a minstrel." He added, "My blade is too conspicuous in this outfit. Are you armed?"

 **"** Not a problem. You mark the targets and we will take them out. You'll have to be the singer regardless; none of the rest of us can speak Italian."

Ezio picked up a lute, testing the chords and reaching back to his earliest childhood memories, back when his family was alive, his father was home, his mother back from her bakery downstairs, and learning to play. He placed his fingers again, trying to remember the tune. After a few minutes, muscle memory began to take over, and a simple melody emanated from the lute.

"You know... how to play that thing?" Yusuf asked, incredulous.

"I learned a few chords when I was young."

Yusuf smiled, once again whimsical. "When were you ever young?"

 _Bastardo_. Ezio snorted as the four of them fanned out, the "aged" grandmaster giving them hints on how to play the foreign instruments. So long as they could hold a steady beat, Ezio would have to do most of the work, and his larger concern was singing. He was not a good singer at all, and he quietly hoped he wouldn't have to.

At last, however, they exited the stable. Yusuf took point, Dogan at his shoulder, and Meryem lightly touched Ezio's sleeve. " _Usta..._ I am worried."

"Don't be," he assured. "We will protect the _shehzadem_."

"No," she said, "That's not what I meant. I failed so badly before, and the stakes are so high now..." Ezio turned, and under her dark curls he saw wide eyes and pale skin; she was terrified of what failure meant. The massacre she had failed to prevent weighed heavily on her shoulders and she did not want to repeat her mistakes. Ezio leaned in.

"Patience," he said. "Above all else, be patient. The time for you to strike will come, and when it does you will know it. Until then, wait, and watch."

" _Evet, Usta. Teshekkur eredim._ "

"You are welcome."

They reached the Gate of Salutation. Two burly looking men in total uniform, even face masks, and curious hats blocked the path. Yusuf whispered in Ezio's ear that they were Janissaries, the _sultan's_ elite guard. Ezio put on a placating smile and stepped forward. " _Perdonate, buon signore,_ " he said politely before switching back to Turkish, "We are part of this evening's entertainment."

"Any old _gerzek_ can carry an instrument around," the Janissary replied. "Get lost."

Ezio pursed his lips into his grey beard. If they were going to be like that, the grandmaster could be the same way. He tapped out a beat on his foot, Yusuf and the others quickly following suit, and quickly put together the first rhyme he could think of.

"No one understands my plight/The life of a musician/Singing for impatient men/A terminal condition!"

The wince from both Janissaries were visible from underneath their masks. "You sound like a dying cat," one of them accused.

Ezio ignored him and continued. "I can't believe I stand here/And sing, my time I waste/But you who sit and smile at me/Sincerely have _no_ taste. The things I do to save the world/Surprise me time to time/Like learning how to play the lute/And making these words rhyme. I sing in Italiano/You understand no word/But my Greek is nonexistent/And my Turkish is absurd!"

He took a breath to start another verse, but the Janissaries were at last pushed beyond their limits.

"You are terrible! All right! Go in and bother the guests with that noise!"

It was after they were past the Janissaries that Yusuf looked over to Ezio. " _Never_ sing like that again."

"I don't intend to sing at _all_ if I can help it."

Beyond was a massive garden; Ezio stared in shock at the expanse. Janissaries patrolled the thick crowds, the land split into stone walkways, mosaic divans, bushes, palm trees and deciduous trees, and gazebos in two sprawling acres of space. Topkapı Palace construction had begun in 1459 when the Ottomans discovered the Byzantine palace was largely in ruins. The final location was an old acropolis, and Yusuf explained they were in the Second Courtyard. The greatest masons, construction workers, carpenters, and builders were hired to create the palace in honor of the fact that the _sultan_ wanted something worth seeing. Construction ended sometime in the 60s, and the final product was glorious. The Second Courtyard was for the courtiers and noblemen, peacocks and gazelle were scattered about the crowds, mixed in with fire-breathers and other minstrels for entertainment.

Bushes, flowerbeds, trees were unlike anything Ezio had seen before, and he realized he was suffering difference of culture again. Palaces in Italia and other countries in Europe showed their power and arrogance by size and scope of a single building. Here, however, the Ottomans impressed people not with their buildings – everything in the palace was at best two stories – but rather with a sense of scope and control over nature and relaxed sense of power. The Ottomans didn't _need_ to be arrogant with their buildings, their conquests spoke for themselves. He wondered what would happen as the centuries wore on, as their deeds waned and their need to prove themselves manifested in other ways.

Yusuf nudged Ezio into movement while he continued to take in his surroundings. Janissaries were omnipresent here, as they had been in the First Courtyard. The crowds were thick, sitting in circles on the stonework or a carpet stretched out over grass, eating spices or breads or talking heatedly over some debate or other. The courtyard was filled with people in rich fineries: silks, turbans, rings, and perfumes. Servants walked – or in two cases – ran from one place to the next. People in unusual clothes were clustered together as exhibits. Yusuf discreetly pointed out major monuments to help keep the woefully overwhelmed Ezio grounded. Over there were the kitchens, there the Tower of Justice, there was the treasury. The Italian grandmaster began to feel more in control of his surroundings. Palm trees, flowerbeds, fountains and stone walkways littered the area, and Yusuf slowly moved his assassins to the other Italians, and he quickly struck up conversation with several of them, his eyes looking out over the crowds while he played some simple chords and let Yusuf and the others back him up.

"You are keeping it pretty simple, _amico_ , is that wise?" one of the entertainers asked.

"They won't know the difference," Ezio said.

"True enough," he replied, nodding sagely.

From the other entertainers, Ezio learned about the guest list and little tidbits of information, as well as the perennial complaints about people who did not understand _art_. Ezio replied lightly with some comments he had heard from his old friend Leonardo, and slowly his eagle began to pick out men and women both who were not enjoying the party, who were looking around as intently as he was. These, then were the would-be killers. "Well then," he said expansively. "I'm going to try and garner up more listeners."

" _Buona fortuna, amico._ "

Ezio slowly departed from the other Italians and began whispering in Yusuf's ear about what he saw. Nodding, Yusuf and Dogan and Meryem spread out. Ezio would move to a crowd he found a conspirator in, and play his lute with the only song he could remember and entertained them, some clapping and others talking quietly amongst themselves while Ezio played, and once the crowd was thoroughly distracted, Yusuf or someone else would come in and remove the problem, dragging the body to nearby bushes or benches when the guards were not looking. The work was tedious until Fusun, the Romani assassin, sidled up and made a point of announcing she make his simple melody much more entertaining. She then moved into a downright _sensual_ dance, making Ezio's chords seem much more enticing and subtle than they actually were. Things moved much quicker after that, and soon Ezio regrouped with Yusuf.

"This courtyard is clear," he said.

"But I do not see the _Shehzadem_ ," Yusuf said, worry in his voice. "Follow me, we'll try further inside."

They reached an ornate arch – the Felicity Gate, Yusuf explained briefly, and metaphorical presence of the _sultan_ – and eyed the gates and the strict guards. Apparently, Yusuf explained with some trepidation, beyond the Felicity Gate was the Third, or Inner Courtyard, restricted to only the royal family and the residents of the palace. They technically needed a pass to get in, an item so rare that even royal _viziers_ could only come in but once a week, but Fusun was once again dancing, distracting the guards and the two mentors passed under the impressive arch.

The Third Courtyard was just as big as the Second, only now the design was based about a series of manmade rectangular ponds, filled with lotuses and surrounding a massive flowering tree. Lanterns hung from poles strung out everywhere, giving the night a warm glow in the humid air. An arched pavilion surrounded the courtyard, the grounds were littered with pillows and carpets and people. These were the people who lived in the palace and their guests, and the dominant feature of the courtyard was a massive kiosk-like structure that Yusuf said was the _sultan's_ audience chamber. It was all so _different_ from what Ezio was used to seeing, and he hung back, looking out over the expanse, and simply tried to take it in.

Fewer people were here, but that was not saying much considering the size. The music was now more unified, and decidedly more Turkish. Ezio realized belatedly that he _still_ had not eaten, and his stomach growled loudly in protest. He lightly filched from a servant running from one place to another with a tray. It was spicy, making him sweat even more in the August humidity, but he forced himself to eat lest his hunger begin affecting his actions.

"Now this is a celebration," Yusuf was saying. Together their eyes darted about the crowds. In the span of ten minutes Yusuf visibly relaxed. "Ah, at last."

A flurry of applause rippled through the crowd. The dignitaries and noblewomen all separated to give room to two men of import a grand entrance. They stood side by side, obviously related and easily the most richly dressed men in a courtyard stuffed with wealth. Yusuf half sat on a rail, jutting his chin to the younger of the two important men. "Suleiman. The Sultan's grandson, and governor of Kefe. It was his being given a governorship that started this feud between his father and uncle. Suleiman was originally going to get Bolu, but Ahmet though that was too close to Istanbul and that's why he was given Kefe. Selim was outraged, and he and his father Bayezid started to fight. It was after Little Judgment Day that Selim added his brother Ahmet to his list of people wanting to fight him. And he's only seventeen."

Ezio studied the boy in the warm light, his strong nose, tightly manicured mustache and tiny wisp of a beard, and he realized something. "We met on the ship, back in May. He told me he was a student..." That _boy_ was a _governor_? Wonders never ceased. Ezio had pegged the boy as a son of a member of the government, even the Sublime Porte, but the _prince_? The child had none of the arrogance and self-importance of one of high birth. Even the good rulers had such airs about them: Lorenzo de' Medici, Caterina Sforza, Agostino Barbarigo. Even Ezio could affect such an attitude from his youth as a noble. Suleiman seemed completely innocent of that level of arrogance, however. Oh, he was confident in his academic knowledge and quick to correct people, but there was an honest humility in him that made the boy utterly fascinating. Ezio made a mental note to ask Yusuf later, after the crisis had passed, what else he knew about the child.

He looked instead to the other member of the two-man sweep. A dignitary was begging to kiss his hand. "And who is that?" he asked.

"His uncle, _Shehzade_ Ahmet. The _Sultan's_ favored son. He is grooming himself for the Sultanate as we speak."

Ahmet was impressive in his dress and his manners. Where Suleiman was humble, Ahmet was clearly the one in charge. He shook hands and accepted kisses and bows, nodding his head when appropriate and tugging his nephew along with a tilt of the head as the pair made their way through the crowd. He carried himself confidently, and the natural arrogance of being high born was fully visible in how he dismissed people he did not wish to talk to. His charisma was not as good as others Ezio had seen in his time, but the prince turned back to the crowed and offered and open-armed bow.

" _Serefe_! _Sagliginiza_!" Ezio needed a moment to translate the polite form of speech and recognize the well wishes. He glanced at Yusuf.

"Come," he said softly. "We have more Byzantines to find."

Knowing the target was Suleiman, Ezio discretely followed the _shehzade_. His eagle awake, he eyed each crowd the boy went through as the prince exchanged grateful greetings and good evenings: " _Hayirli Aksamlar_. I hope you are enjoying yourself. We should speak soon. Thank you for coming."

Ezio spied a hanger-on who was reaching behind his back. The grandmaster didn't spy Yusuf immediately, and he had no way to dispatching the would-be killer under his own power. Grunting, he thought up the different lyrics he had come up with over the course of the evening.

"There once was a man named Duccio/A rat with lecherous taste/Whenever he would show himself/My fist would find his face!"

The young prince blinked, turning to look at Ezio, but the graying grandmaster's eyes were on Yusuf as he deftly took care of the culprit and dragged him away while Ezio sang so badly, tossing the body into a rosebush. Suleiman finished with that particular crowd and moved on, Ezio following discretely as he continued to finger the lute, his simple notes drowned out mostly from the rest of the music drifting through the air. Walking up to a fountain, the _shehzade_ met with another crowd. Scanning each face, each slouch, each shift of weight... There, leaning against a pillar, Ezio strummed his lute a little harder and drew in a breath, shocked that he had not yet been thrown out of the palace for his voice.

"Proud Romagna's iron lady/A rose of tempered steel/Could raise the ardor of a corpse/And teach a stone to feel. While traveling through Forlì/I took her at her leisure/She said 'It's strictly business'/Such business was my pleasure!"

Suleiman again turned; did he understand Italian? He had seemed so ignorant of it on the boat. Still, the threat had been neutralized, and Ezio again molded to the background, watching the Janissaries, the crowds, Suleiman, his own people, all of it. The _shehzade_ moved through the ponds, running a hand casually through the waters before stepping up to the flowering tree. Ezio had spied another killer, and he risked exposing himself again to give the signal:

"No one understands my plight/The life of a musician/Singing for impatient men/A terminal condition. I can't believe I stand here/And sing, my time I waste/But you who sit and smile at me/Sincerely have no taste. I am a tactless minstrel/I sing off-key for coins/If you spot me in the street/Please kick me in the loins!"

Suleiman once more turned to Ezio, a frown on his face before a smile graced it. "Such an exotic sound," he murmured to the ladies next to him. Ezio eyed the prince with one eye while the other saw Yusuf slip through the crowd.

"What is he saying?" someone asked. "He is so _bad_ , why is he here?"

"I think he's singing about being a minstrel," the _shehzade_ replied. "I'm not yet fluent in Italian, but I think he's being ironic. It's quite good, I can understand why he was chosen; he has a gift with lyrics."

A tiny corner of Ezio's mind _balked_ that the _sultan's grandson_ thought _his singing_ was "quite good." He was also running out of lyrics. Ezio was not a poet like some of the men in his brotherhood in Italia, and his attention was more than split as the evening wore on; he couldn't conceive of doing this mission without his eagle, there were so many things to keep track of. Still the night was hardly done, and Ezio continued to shadow the young prince. Things seemed to settle down as the boy moved from one crowd to the next, exchanging greetings and polite talk and pleasantries. Ahmet was nowhere to be seen, but Ezio could hardly hunt down Yusuf and ask what had happened to the future _sultan_. Suleiman continued to weave about, and the greying grandmaster was beginning to think they had taken care of the last of the conspirators. There had been a full hour of no new activity, but his eagle was restless, something kept catching his attention, usually innocuous, and he couldn't help but sense that something was wrong. Were there still more killers? Had they noticed their significantly thinned ranks? Were they planning counter measures? Ezio's mind was beginning to race, and Suleiman made his way to the largest crowd yet. The red lanterns cast everything in a red light, and Ezio wasn't sure what his eagle was trying to point out to him. He couldn't find Yusuf, either, and all sorts of bad scenarios began to enter into his mind.

There! At the back of the crowd. A servant with a knife, running so fast as to bowl over a guest – an enormous breech of etiquette.

Ezio used up the last of his lyrics: "To judge a lady's character/Note well her company/If you should wish to seem a sage/Come spend the night with me. Oh the beauties of Firenze/Can melt a heart, you see/Beware the girls of Roma/Lest fire you wish to pee. Fair Lucrezia could not sate/Her appetite for lovers/But I suspect she would be fine/With two or three more brothers."

Suleiman turned bright red at the raunchy lyrics, but Ezio was too busy watching the would-be killer. He couldn't see any assassins yet, and he risked moving into the crowd, pushing and shouldering his way through the people, beelining to Suleiman. He saw one of the assassins – he couldn't see which – handle the conspirator, but the crowd was getting thick, more people were pushing to get close to Suleiman and solicit his time. Ezio could see the boy be slightly confused by the change in the air, and at last he made his way to the prince.

" _Vostra Altezza Reale_ ," he said politely, and then went back to Turkish, thickening his accent as much as he dared. "I noticed you enjoyed the measured restraint of such a simple melody."

"Uh, well done, thank you," the _shehzadem_ said, a little surprised. So close, however, Suleiman could recognize his entertainer, and his eyes widened. "Ah! It is a relief to see you again, _mia bella minestrella_. Did I say that right?"

Disregarding the fact that he has just used entirely feminine particles? "... Well enough," he replied, holding back a wince. "I hear you are a governor and a _shehzadem_ too. Is there anything you do not do?"

"I do not talk to strangers," the prince replied politely. He paused, letting the moment hang, before he bowed his head. "I am Suleiman."

"Ezio Audi-"

" _Suikastchi_! _Suikastch_ i!" A Janissary plowed through the thick crowds, and Ezio could see a body on the ground, not one of his men for which he was grateful. At a glance he could see that someone had interfered with an assassin disposing of a body, which meant there was one conspirator at least still about. The Janissary shoved his way to the prince, brutally casting Ezio aside, still giving orders. "Clear the courtyard! _Shehzade_ Suleiman, take cover! Follow them!"

The boy had gone utterly white, and he hastily grabbed a knife at his side, eyes looking everywhere. Ezio took up position beside him, cursing and holding his damnable lute like a club as he bellowed, " _Assassini! Proteggete il principe!_ " Then he cursed again realizing he had given the order in Italian. Yusuf seemed to understand it, however, because he appeared from nowhere, sword in hand, and turned his back to Suleiman to cover the prince, Ezio doing the same from the front.

" _Suikastchi!_ " a Janissary accused! "Get away from the _shehzadem_."

"No, you don't understand-"

"Ezio!"

The greying grandmaster turned to where Yusuf was pointing, and saw another servant, unnoticed in the commotion around the prince, stab a guard in the back. The prince was moving back and forth, his mind likely bouncing and jumping from one thought to the next and his body trying to follow suit.

" _Merda,_ " Ezio cursed, breaking his lute in two as Yusuf engaged in tepid swordplay with the Janissaries, not wanting to hurt them. He took off at a dead sprint, jumping with agility over one Janissary and leaping up, driving the splintered and broken neck of the lute into the neck of the would-be killer. Hands grabbed at him immediately afterward and he was yanked to his feet. Ezio took the offending arm and threw it, body and all, over his shoulder and took a wide stance. His minstrel cap had disappeared, and many seams of his poorly fitted clothes were ripped; he looked quite the sight but he did not raise a hand to the Janissaries. They circled around him, wary of what he might do, and Yusuf was in similar peril. He had held off his guards expertly, it seemed, and no one knew quite what to do with such skilled fighters.

 **"** _Shehzadem_! Are you injured? We must get you to safety!"

The questions seemed to still the shocked prince back into awareness, the boy blinked, realizing belatedly he still held his knife. The shaking stopped, and he straightened to his full height.

"Who is your captain, soldier?" he asked, his voice shaky but still conveying authority.

"Tarik Barleti. He is away on an errand."

Suleiman gaped at the soldier, his expression open for all to see, before he took a deep breath and fought to control himself. "I think it rather obvious that these two men saved my life," he said slowly, his voice soft but with a hint of iron. "I do not think it a wise reward for them to be killed or arrested. Release them."

The soldier immediately followed orders, and Ezio moved slowly to Yusuf, the two exchanging an uncertain glance. Suleiman approached them, equally uncertain. "I owe both of you a debt of gratitude," he said, his words flowery and polite, giving Ezio pause as he mentally translated the language. He turned to Yusuf to let the local mentor take to the fore, but the Turk shook his head, and Ezio was forced to take the lead.

"We are men who wish for the continued peace of Istanbul and her people," Ezio said, hoping his Turkish was equally flowery. "From the impoverished to the royalty, all men and women must know peace in their hearts and minds and accept the diversity of the world; those who would inflict ill on another must reap the consequences of such a decision."

"I..." Suleiman started, but his eyes trailed off to the corpse and he made a face. "Clear this body and send the guests home," he ordered the soldier.

"Of course _, shehzadem_ ," the Janissary replied.

"Forgive me, _effendim_ , I did not get your name before," Suleiman said, still stiff and formal. "Nor, apparently, your title."

Ezio glanced at Yusuf, but the Turkish mentor was utterly blank, refusing to give away anything. The grandmaster had never seen the amiable Yusuf so closed off, but then, men did funny things in the presence of royals. He studied Suleiman next, judging what the boy could handle. His eagle showed him as an ally, and for a _seventeen year old boy_ to take an attempt on his life and still manage to give orders was impressive. The boy was learned, soft-spoken, and frankly showed some promise. He was still pale as a ghost, though, and Ezio suspected that there were few shocks left that his body could take.

"Ezio Auditore da Firenze, Il Mentore degli Assassini Italiani. There seems to be much for us to discuss, but I propose it be done at a later date, preferably when you have had time to absorb the most violent shock of realizing someone just tried to kill you."

The _shehzadem_ paled all over again, and he realized he was still clutching his knife even now. Mad at himself, he put it away with shaky hands. "It would seem that I must bow to your council," he said slowly, looking up to Ezio. "I would like to have an audience with you, perhaps tomorrow or the day after. I will have a pass written for you and shall expect you... wait, how will I find you?"

Ezio offered a small smile filled with Florentine irony. " _I_ will find _you_ , _Shehzadem_."

Suleiman blinked, perhaps realizing for the first time just how cloak and dagger the Assassins were. However much potential Ezio saw in the boy, he was not so stupid as to blindly hand the child over the location of the hideout, or some other consistent meeting place, until he had council with the stiff-lipped Yusuf. "Or, at least," he added, "I will once I change out of these rags."

The young prince blinked a second time, and tried again. "You have knowledge of this conspiracy that clearly overshadows those of my own soldiers, it is necessary for you to stay."

"No, it is necessary for you to recover, _Shehazedem_. When you have stopped shaking, and your pallor returns, then we will talk. For now I must tend to my own. I will see you later."

And, shockingly, Suleiman relented and Ezio and Yusuf were given an escort out of Topkapı Palace. Once they were in the streets, Dogan and Meryem and Fusun joined them and, having retrieved their normal clothes, handed them over for everyone to get changed. The walk back to the hideout was utterly silent, something Ezio would never have expected of the talkative Yusuf, and he worried until they were once again under their abandoned mosque, deep in the cistern and locked away in Ezio's room.

" _Usta_ ," Yusuf said, his face serious. " _Usta_ I respect you for everything you've done; not only your accomplishments in Italya but also the miracles you have performed here. You have gone out of your way to help us when none of anything going on here is your affair, and kindness such as that is a rare and valued gift. We could not have saved Suleiman if not for you and the work you have done to make Istanbul safe for us, as well as your keen eyesight tonight. I would give my life to repay you for the favors you have granted us."

"But...?" Ezio asked.

"But Ezio, the reason we have a strong presence here is because we are not allied with any of the royals."

The grandmaster frowned, confused. "You have been lauding the Ottomans from almost before I got off the ship, how you now have breathing room here and a chance to make a real difference for the first time in years."

" _Evet, Usta_ , but perhaps what you have not picked up is that I _loathe_ what the Ottomans are doing to each other while they try to figure out who will inherit the throne. Ahmet is favored, but Selim would drag down the entire empire to reverse that decision if he could, and Ahmet himself has his own ambitions, and Bayezid is _still alive_. It is peaceful here in Istanbul, _Usta_ , but it is _not_ peaceful out there, in the villages and the provinces and the principalities, and it's the royals that cause all that carnage. Ezio, if we allied with the Ottomans, we'd be pulled into their conflicts, and we can't afford it. _I_ can't afford it."

Ezio nodded slowly, taking in the information and processing it with care. "You see the sultanate as I see the papacy. You want men in their court and aware of what's going on, but you to do not wish to be leashed to them. Is that correct?"

Yusuf sighed in relief, drinking his goat's milk for the first time since they started talking. "You understand, _Usta_."

The older man nodded, sipping his wine and eating the meal that had been prepared. "I do. I will not drag our _Suikastchi_ into their fight. I do not think it is a good idea, however, to completely absent yourself from their lives. There are ways to make yourself available to members of the court and not be told what to do."

"I know that, Ezio," Yusuf said. "And in five or ten years, I may do just that, but for now I just can't do it."

" _Evet._ I will be mindful."

"Thank you, Ezio." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, where to start. With this chapter it should be obvious by now how we're treating the Desmond parts: we're taking both his Desmond's Journey parts and Clay's Lost Archive parts and mixing them together in actual dialogue. We actually kind of proud of the creativity of the idea, and as the game progresses it will become more and more... interesting. Not much to be said for these first early entries, but it is now officially established.
> 
> Ezio meanwhile isn't doing too much aside from following the game at this point. We've met two new apprentices, Fusun and Obelius, and we've started to see a little bit of how the giant kitchen sink plot will be woven together by us. Also Piri Reis. As an aside, we're told that in Italian Piri's butchering of Ezio's name is slightly different. Rather than call him Lothario after Ezio's reputation of being a lover, in Italian he calls him "Enzo," which is a nickname for names like Vincenzo or Lorenzo.
> 
> But really this chapter is about the party and Topkapi Palace. Suleiman was perhaps the most interesting character to write in that while he barely shows up in the game his voice actor (aka MALIK! GOD WE'VE MISSED YOU!) gives a breathless sense of depth and subtlety to him that the two of us immediately picked up on. Where Mirror (roughly) wrote all the Sofia memories because we wanted to make her an actual character, Image (also roughly) wrote all the Suleiman scenes to study his character and the complexities of growing up as an Ottoman prince. Between the harem and and govenorship and the battles for succession, there's a lot to pull from.
> 
> Muslim Lesson: Now that all the holidays are squared away, next up is structure and hierarchy. There are three major positions in Islam: the bilal, who is the person who climbs the towers inevitably attached to mosques and give the call to prayer (aka the athan). All that vague singing you hear while walking around Constantinople? That's the bilal issuing the call to prayer. The title is an honor to Bilal, who was one of Muhammed's (peace be upon him) companions; he was actually an emancipated African slave, and his story encapsulates the respect for diversity and abhorrence of slavery in Islamic practices.
> 
> After the bilal is the imam, or prayer leader. The closest Catholic equivalent is priest, but that's not a perfect match. An imam is chosen based on piety and is linked to a mosque, but that's not the only kind of imam. Because prayers can be held anywhere, anyone can be chosen to be an imam; like, if a bunch of girls are studying together and it's prayer time, one of them will be named imam to lead the prayers.
> 
> WE NEED BETAS: We once again give a shout out. We need a beta for the French, and we need a beta for the racism that exists in Revolutionary AC3. If you or someone you know is fluent in French or can comfortably tell us if we push things too far or not far enough, then pm us and let us know.
> 
> Next chapter: Sofia, Suleiman, Kasim, and Meryem. Busy busy busy!


	7. Painful Lessons

The Italian grandmaster waited until noon the next day before, dressed in his hood and hidden blades, he passed through the Imperial Gate and back into Topkapi. The expansive Courtyard was hilly and green; he had not had the chance to truly appreciate it the night before when he was stalking minstrels and stealing their clothes. He passed Aya Irini, the first church built in Constantinopoli and now converted to the Janissary armory, and walked up to the Salutation Gate. He needed an official pass to get in from this point forward, and his eagle quickly picked out a courier leaving the palace and, slightly bumping into him, retrieved the document necessary to get himself into the Second Courtyard. 

Now empty of people and in broad daylight, Ezio had a greater respect for the design of the palace and the subtle psychology at work. There was a pragmatism that the buildings were almost entirely two stories; instead of announcing ego it suggested getting work done, and since this was the home of the Sublime Porte, it effused a sense of efficiency and sobriety. No, the arrogance came instead in the sheer scope of the grounds, and Ezio could better appreciate it without the pressures of the previous night, on top of now being well fed and prepared for what was to come. He walked up to the well-guarded Felicity Gate, soldiers pressed shoulder to shoulder after the events of last night, and all of them glared bitterly at the hooded man.

" _Perdonate, signori,_ " Ezio said politely, then switched back to Turkish, " _Shehzade_ Suleiman is expecting me; we met after some excitement last night. Did he leave word to expect me?"

Nobody spoke or said a word, but Ezio's eagle saw one man quickly disappear to the inner courtyard, and so he waited. Inside of a half hour an official came up and allowed Ezio in; he escorted the grandmaster through the water gardens and into the impressive audience chamber that dominated the space. Suleiman, instead of being seated inside the throne room, was at one of the many colonnades, in the shade; he quickly detached himself from his spot and moved to greet Ezio.

" _Buongiorno_ ," the prince said.

" _Meharba,_ " Ezio countered. "How are you holding up?"

Suleiman gave a small, almost shy smile. "You were quite correct that I needed time. I am embarrassed to admit that I quite fell apart over the course of the night."

"A strong man allows himself to fall apart when he needs to, so that he won't at an inopportune time," Ezio said, nodding sagely. "I have learned this lesson the hard way. Now, where would you like to begin?"

The boy looked out to the far side of the courtyard, where the adventure had reached its terrible conclusion. "I can still see the attack," he said softly. "The heat of the crowds, the sense of motion slowing down, and then you, brazenly running forward." He sighed. "I have been taught combat since I was a boy, and when I needed it most the instincts my teachers drove into me were nowhere to be seen. I was vulnerable."

"This, too, I know," Ezio said, curious if Suleiman were leading up to something or not. Yusuf had not provided much education; _shehzadem_ were tightly guarded as children, and the boy's public life was only just starting. The Italian grandmaster did not know if Suleiman knew his father well, had a close relationship with him, or was raised by stewards or governesses or someone else entirely. Was he reaching out for comfort after his ordeal, or was he skillfully manipulating the conversation to make a point? Ezio waited.

The boy glanced at Ezio, a curious purse of his lips, as if to wonder why Ezio was not sharing more, before a more shrewd look passed over his face and he began walking. "It would appear I still have much to learn about the world," he said slowly. "I did some asking last night. Your name is the stuff of legends, and it is very hard to tell what is rumor and what is truth."

"That is to my benefit, _Shehzadem_ , mystery keeps me alive."

"And should mystery be present everywhere?"

"No, not in an ideal world," Ezio replied. "But this is not an ideal world."

"And what would an ideal world look like to you?"

This was a test then. The two men, though thrown together, were too shrewd to trust each other at the get go; and though the graying grandmaster could discern much just from watching the prince, the boy did not yet have those kinds of skills; and so instead the child had derived a test. Ezio knew the dangers of it; though Suleiman was not _sultan_ he _was_ a prince, and could easily order Ezio's execution, and this deep into the palace, there would be nothing Ezio could do to stop it. He would not, however, answer however this boy _wanted_ to be answered. The grandmaster had vowed long ago that no one would own him, not a pope, not a countess, and not a prince. If this burned a bridge, he could deal with it; if it got him killed, he had left word with Yusuf on what to do in regards to Claudia, and the Masyaf secrets would continue to be pursued.

"You ask a difficult question," Ezio answered honestly, "the word 'ideal' means different things to different people, and some ideals are so arbitrary so that an ideal world for everyone is impossible. However, for _assassini_ , or s _uikastchi_ as you call us, we would like a world where men and women live together in equality and wisdom, to learn that laws arise not from divinity but from reason and careful contemplation; an ideal world is one where diversity is accepted instead of annihilated, where women are respected instead of treated like objects, where creed does not bring about war, and where our work is no longer necessary."

"A uniquely simple and complex answer," Suleiman replied after a very long pause.

"Then have I passed your test?"

Suleiman blinked, surprised he had been caught. Ezio offered an ironic grin, and the boy smiled slightly again. "You have passed enough that I can trust your word for now. Can you tell me how you came to know there was to be an attack last night?"

And so Ezio went into the gritty details of what had happened, carefully avoiding explaining how Yusuf had learned about the attack, talking _very_ briefly about the Byzantine faction in _very_ broad terms without mentioning the word "Templar," and outlining how they had devised their plan to protect the prince. A scribe and a young, un-promoted Janissary were both present, the soldier confirming what information he could, and outraged at pieces he did not know. Suleiman stayed mostly quiet, absorbing it all with the quiet intellect that made Ezio so careful with his words. The boy's intelligence was obvious given their previous conversation, and the occasional observations he offered were insightful and thought provoking on almost all counts. Other comments were questions on procedure or law, showing he was detail oriented and quick to learn. Ezio couldn't help being impressed by the lad, and wishing a good future for him.

After an exhaustive two hours, the Janissary left to further his investigations, as did the scribe, and they were once again alone. Suleiman spoke.

"Tarik Barleti is a captain in the Janissary corps, the Sultan's elite soldiery. He was also noticeably absent from last night's activities."

"They guard the Sultan, but not his family?" Ezio asked.

"Not very well, evidently. Ezio, do you have time to spare? I would like your opinion on something."

Ezio offered his Florentine irony: "I think I could spare a moment or two."

" _Guzel_. I have arranged a meeting with my uncle Ahmet and the Janissary captain. The Janissaries are loyal to my grandfather, but they have lately become angry over his choice of the next Sultan."

"Your uncle," Ezio said. Ahmet, the man who was at the party last night but disappeared when things went to hell.

"Exactly. The Janissaries prefer my father, Selim."

Ezio pursed his lips. "You are in a tough spot. Your father is out to make war with your grandfather, but the Janissary soldiers favor your father while your Uncle is the favorite to become _sultan_. And you, in the middle of it, became a target. That more than explains motive, but how do the Byzantines fit into this? _They_ were the ones who tried to kill you."

"I had hoped you might know," Suleiman said, disappointed.

Ezio shook his head. The young prince rubbed his chin, thinking, and Ezio waited to see what the child would do. At length, the _shehzadem_ looked up. "Would you be willing to help me find out?"

There it was. The offering of an alliance. Ezio liked the boy, but he held true to his promise to Yusuf to keep the assassins separate from family politics. Having said that, Ezio had a vested interest in learning where the Byzantines were and how they were getting their money and their men and their information. There were also the Masyaf keys to worry about, Ezio did _not_ want the Templars to discover the memories that Altaïr had locked away in those discs. Having help from Topkapi would help immensely, and Ezio was not so closed minded that he wouldn't take help when it was offered. "I am tracking them myself," he said, but firmly added, "I can help you as long as our interests run parallel."

Suleiman didn't quite snort, he was too dignified for that, but he offered an honest, "I will take what I can get," and _that_ line was very telling. The _shehzadem_ had nowhere else to turn and felt desperate indeed if a half-promise from a man he had known less than twenty-four hours garnered such a sincere response. Did he trust no one on the grounds? No, Ezio realized, probably not, because not only had Byzantines snuck into the palace, but the Janissaries were caught completely flat-footed. What was supposed to be a safe haven had turned into a battlefield, and that kind of thing struck _very_ close to home; Ezio could personally attest to that. Suleiman was as Ezio was when he had lost his family, and again when Monteriggioni had been attacked: violated, confused, lost, and desperate for answers and the feeling of safety again. Empathy welled up in the aged grandmaster, and he privately hoped their interests stayed aligned for a long time.

"There is a hatch at the top of the Tower of Justice which leads to a secret room. Go there, wait, and watch. I will join you when I can."

" _Bene_ , I will see you there."

It took the better part of an hour to get to the secret room. Once Ezio was on the roofs of the massive complex, he was invisible to guards, and he spent his time enjoying the climb. The hatch opened easily, and Ezio found an ornately grilled portal overlooking an expansive room that he assumed was the one of the parts of the imperial council. The meeting was already underway, Suleiman was there, as was his uncle, the bearded Ahmet, and the man Ezio didn't recognize must have been Tarik Barleti.

"Heed my nephew, Tarik," Ahmet was saying, "Your incompetence borders on treason. And to think that our Janissaries were outshone by _an Italian lute_ player! Preposterous!"

"An inexcusable failing, _efendim_ ," Barleti said, standing perfectly straight. He wore a closely fitted helmet and an ornate cloak, flanked by two subordinates. "I will conduct a full investigation."

" _I_ will conduct the investigation, Tarik," Suleiman said firmly. "For reasons that should be obvious."

The captain of the Janissaries immediately bowed his head in submission to the correction. " _Evet, Shehzadem_." Then he looked up, and a softer gaze briefly crossed his grizzled features. "You have your father's wisdom," he said, somewhat warmly.

"And his impatience," Suleiman replied, trying to press the point and look authoritative. The boy let the moment hang, as he seemed to like to do, before turning to Ahmet.

"Uncle, I am relieved to see you safe," he said softly.

"Likewise, Suleiman," the other prince replied, nodding. "May Allah protect you."

"I must begin my investigation," Suleiman said, "If you will excuse me."

"Of course," Ahmet said, rising. The three men moved to leave, but the bearded prince lingered. "Tarik _Bey_... a word?"

The grizzled Janissary captain turned back around, stood – if possible – even more stiffly now that he was alone with a man he did not favor. His gaze drifted off to nothing, not even meeting Ahmet's eye.

"What was the purpose of this attack, I wonder?" Ahmet posited. "To make me look weak? An ineffective steward of this city?" The prince stepped forward, shorter than the Janissary but still managing to look menacing. He lifted an accusatory finger. "If you had a hand in this mess, Tarik, you have made a grave mistake. My father has chosen _me_ as the next Sultan, not my brother."

Tarik's response was very telling. "Ahmet," he said in a conciliatory tone that was _anything_ but conciliatory. "I am not depraved enough to imagine the conspiracy you accuse me of." Still his gaze did not meet the _shehzadem_ , and Ezio realized it was not military training, but a deliberate and subtle means of snubbing Ahmet. He _hated_ Ahmet, and was willing to risk the danger of insulting him to prove the point.

Ahmet's eyes narrowed. "What have I done to earn such contempt from the Janissaries?" he demanded, spreading his hands wide in confusion. "What has my brother done for you that I have not?"

A long, heavy pause drew out. Then,

"May I speak freely?"

"You'd better."

Military gaze locked on nothing, Tarik said: "You are weak, Ahmet. Pensive in times of war and restless in times of peace. You spent your time trying to get the Janissaries on your side when you were supposed to be fighting Shakulu, and your play at politics cost Hadim Ali _Pasha_ his life. And, no sooner does the fighting settle between your brother and the _sultan_ , that you take over Konya and declare yourself _sultan_ of Anatolia to stir up more trouble. You lack passion for the traditions of the _ghazi_ , the tribal holy warriors, yet you speak of fraternity in the company of infidels. You would make a decent philosopher, Ahmet, but you will be a poor _Sultan_."

The _shehzadem_ was shaking with rage. "You may show yourself out," he hissed.

The men left, and Ezio leaned back from the ornate grill, pensive.

"Quite a family, eh?"

Ezio nodded, having already sensed when the prince discreetly entered the secret room.

"It is not everyday someone who is not _sultan_ watches a meeting out the Golden Window," Suleiman said, pointing to the grated portal. "I suppose it should be an honor, but the subject matter inhibits such a feeling."

The Italian grandmaster leaned against a wall, crossing his arms. "You wanted my opinion, _si?_ Your uncle lacks sway over the men he will soon command. He is frustrated and ambitious, and worse he is arrogant and petty. I agree with the _bey_ , he would make a poor _sultan_. Barleti, however, is just as dangerous."

The young _shehzade_ nodded, face pensive. "Tarik is a hard man, proud and capable but ambitious. And he admires my father greatly; he is steadfastly loyal and has very strong opinions."

"... But he failed to secure this palace against a Byzantine invasion," Ezio countered. "That alone is worth our attention. Why was he away from his post? How did the Byzantines get past his men – presumably the most highly trained soldiers in your army?"

"Precisely," Suleiman said. "At this moment I cannot trust the Janissaries to perform their investigation, and because of the Byzantine infiltration I cannot trust the members of the Sublime Porte. It would seem that _you_ are all I have."

Ezio nodded. "Where should we begin?"

"For now, keep an eye on Tarik and his Janissaries. They spend much of their free time in and around the Kapalicharshi."

Another order. "I will start there _when I can,_ " Ezio said. He needed to impress upon Suleiman that he may be forced to trust Ezio, but he did not _own_ Ezio. "Can you get past your father's inherited impatience and wait until I am ready to make a report?"

Suleiman gave another small, shy smile. "I do not have a choice, do I?"

Ezio smirked. "You do not."

* * *

Ezio gave a full report to Yusuf about what had happened at the palace, and the next day he took the Order's secretary Azize to the old Polo trading post to talk to the Venetian bookseller. She had not discerned anything, but Ezio spent an hour there browsing the books and buying a few that Azize found particularly interesting.

After that he checked in on Piri to learn more about bombs and, frankly, for some interesting conversation, and after _that_ he checked in on various assassins. Meryem had finally moved from the slate to practical applications and was improving. The masons Tahir and Kadmus had cleared away one of the old cisterns and created an impressive playground with the remaining rubble. Kasim was once again dogging him for favor, and Ezio alternated between using the timid Sila and the sour Fusun. From the former he had yet to get to open up, from the latter he began to get the sense that her sour disposition was just her nature rather than any intentional dislike to any one person. Yusuf introduced him to his contacts at the bazaar, and Ezio began taking note of when and where the Janissaries arrived at the grand market.

It was one afternoon that he stopped by Piri's to get another lesson on bomb making.

"Turkish smoke bombs," the cartographer asked, "Have you used them before?"

"Should I?" Ezio countered. "I have used smoke bombs before, with varying results."

Piri smiled. "But not like ours. We have a special recipe for deep, dark clouds. Throw one of these and your eyes are useless. You must rely on your hearing, and... any other senses you may have cultivated."

Ezio raised an eyebrow and entered fully Florentine tones. "Other senses? What could that mean?"

"Word gets around, Ezio. That you are a special sort of man, with strange gifts. Word has it that you captured a man from Istanbul some years ago in a city of towers using only your eyes; you spotted him across the city at a distance no one could fathom. And Yusuf talks about a scribe you sent over here to learn about my maps. He was so green it didn't take long to learn that you had skills no one could hope to match."

Damn his luck. Was his _life_ an open book? "Keep it to yourself," he said, more than a little petulant.

"Of course," Piri said. "But, if you want to test the usefulness of that bomb, I suggest checking in with one of our suppliers. A shipment of his was raided by bandits, a handy test for you."

Ezio blinked. "Is it not convenient that you have a challenge ready for me?"

"No," Piri replied. "It is that _you_ conveniently arrived so I didn't have to send for Yusuf."

And so for three days Ezio was traipsing about the western slums of Constantinopoli with his omnipresent escorts until he found the bandit camp. More than slightly put out by all the work in the humid air, he threw the smoke bomb without really expecting anything or making a plan around it. He was shocked, then, when the smoke bomb turned the entire narrow alley into a blanket of fog. He looked to Fusun in surprise, and she offered a deadpan, "What?"

He had recaptured the supplies in less than ten minutes.

Later that week he was chatting with Sofia, the book lender, after she had explained what little she had discerned.

"I am curious," he said slowly, still flattered by the way she flirted with him, "How is it that you came to man this shop unattended?"

"It belonged to my parents. They died on Little Judgment Day, and so I took over. I already knew I would live life as a spinster by then, and so I decided I would live it in the best way possible."

It was the most refreshing, awe-inspiring comment she could have made, and Ezio thought of her often for the rest of the month.

 _Claudia,_ he wrote,

 _I have made the acquaintance of an Ottoman prince named Suleiman. He is a clever young man, with a fortitude uncommon for his age. His family is large and deeply complicated: his father and uncle are fighting over who will inherit the throne while the_ sultan _is still alive to curry favor. There has been a threat on Suleiman's life but Yusuf and I were able to quell it before things got out of hand. The prince has named me an ally after the attack, he knows there are deep waters around him and wishes to learn how dark they might be. He means well, for a boy, and I rather like him. Even if he had not charged me with investigating the attempt on his life I would do so anyway to learn why the Byzantines had arranged it._

_On his suggestion, I shall be investigating some wayward Janissaries who may be in league with the Templars. With luck they shall lead me straight to the core of the Templar's leadership. With a name Yusuf and his men will have a wider swath of information and possible courses to pursue to end the Templar threat._

_Meanwhile, the Venetian Sofia Sartor continues to help me find the hidden Masyaf keys. She is a diligent woman, full of passion and vigor, and I enjoy her company immensely. Thirty-five and a spinster, she has lived here until the Ottoman-Venetian War back in '99. I wonder if Antonio or Teodora ever came across her...? Her parents ran the bookshop she now owns, and she has decided to live life "in the best way possible," following her passion. There are so few women out there in the world that are like her, and she is a breath a fresh air in a stagnant, unhappy world.._

_… But I dare not tell her the purpose of my stay here, nor of my true vocation. Those who do not volunteer in our struggle, should not be forced to fight it..._

September dawned with a massive thunderstorm that, with heavy to intermittent rain all day, kept everyone inside. Ezio didn't relish the idea going out in the warm rain to send off his most recent letter to Claudia. All the moisture made the air feel sticky so he instead stayed in the cistern where it was blissfully cooler to start checking in on how various dens were doing, as they tended to at the beginning of each month. Yusuf was still going over names for den leaders, but there just weren't enough Assassins who were fully enough trained to remain in a fixed location. Ezio agreed that it was difficult, and started his usual suggestions. Perhaps bringing in potentials for extra training that they needed? But they were still active Assassins and needed throughout the city.

Ezio let out a sigh. "But how are the dens doing overall?"

Yusuf let out a bark of a laugh. "Very well, _Usta_ da Firenze! In fact, our dens outside the Constantinian wall are finally getting messages through."

Ezio nodded. The Constantinian wall, which their derelict mosque was butt up against, marked the old city that had been where the Byzantines had seated their power for centuries. Outside Istanbul continued and Yusuf had almost as many dens _outside_ the Constantinian walls as he had inside. Those dens, thankfully, had not faced as much strife from Vali's betrayal as those closer to Topkapi and the power of the Ottomans had, and seemed to have returned to their usual routine quickly.

"In fact," Yusuf smiled broadly as he always did, "their new trades are giving them better access to word from outside Istanbul. And with all we've done bringing Ottoman guards to nests of Byzantines, they don't even have to bribe as much as they used to."

Ezio frowned right into his beard.

"Your Assassins have been coming through the Constantinian wall to give us information by _bribing_ Ottomans? Not disguised as their trades to deliver goods deeper into the city?"

Yusuf's smile seemed to grow even wider. "Ah, using trades that Vali knew about?"

Ezio bit back a growl as he remembered the rogue Assassin who had turned Templar. With the Constantinian wall too high to scale, even with roofs up against it, and no way to disguise one's way in, the only way _would_ have been to bribe. Especially with the tunnels between the cisterns still unsafe after the Little Judgment. Tahir and Kadmus were doing good work within the Assassin's headquarters, and would likely be done with most major repairs by the end of the year, but it would be another year after that before they could tackle the underground tunnels.

Yusuf's smile grew again. "No _usta,_ it seems you have some mail."

To this, at least, Ezio smiled. A letter from Claudia would be most welcome when he was, yet again, in such a foul mood. He could add his response to the letter he had just finished composing. "Have it sent to the library," Ezio said softly, standing from the fire. "I'd prefer to read it in private."

Eyes twinkling, Yusuf agreed.

Ezio soon saw why when Obelius brought in not one letter, but several. Ezio accepted them, not sure why there were so many. Perhaps Machiavelli or Leonardo or Alighiero or Federica had sent regards through Claudia? She was the only one to know where he was.

The first letter he opened was not from Italia at all. It was from Bursa, where a local Turk and ally had been driven to hiding. The local Assassins wanted help in providing protection and an escort for his family to Konstantiniyye.

Frowning, Ezio opened another letter, this one from Lisbon. Emboldened by the colonization efforts, the Templars had started sending "missionaries" as far as India. They needed an Assassin from outside the country to infiltrate the court and start collecting intelligence and mapping movements. Algiers was also having issues as the Spanish king had taken the local king, Samis el Filipe, hostage. The local king was too well guarded in a fortified jail and sought a way to get a line of communication into the prison. The _amir_ , however, was willing to turn a blind eye to Assassins if they could convince an Ottoman privateer named Heyreddin Baba Oruch to chip away the Spanish influence in the area.

Ezio balked. The pirate Red Beard Barbarossa was needed to remove the Spanish from Africa?

Then he growled.

There was only way that _anyone_ would know that he had settled, even temporarily, to Istanbul.

" _Yusuf!_ "

The Turkish Assassin's laughter echoed through the cistern.

The next day, after Ezio had stopped swearing so loudly and vociferously that nearly every Assassin in the headquarters was blushing, he sat down with Yusuf to discuss the pleas for help. Both agreed that some of the Assassins who had been promoted to fill in some of the numbers after the Little Judgment, could use this as a chance to see who was truly a good Assassin, and thus get a den, and who needed more training. It would grant them experience and a chance to work with more established Assassins like they couldn't in Istanbul. Both Ezio and Yusuf went through the lists and went about making assignments.

Later that week Kasim was, to Ezio's annoyance, his escort in the city. It wasn't that Kasim was a bad Assassin. Far from it, he was competent and capable. But he was always looking for praise, and Ezio _refused_ to give it. One didn't become an Assassin for praise, but to make the world better. As long as Kasim kept showing off, no matter how good he was, Ezio would not give him a larger ego. But Kasim's dogged determination to do well in front of _Il Mentore_ , _Usta da Firenze_ , was tiresome. The air was still thick from the summer, but not as much as the height of the season, and Ezio was checking in with various dens as Yusuf kept training back at headquarters.

Ezio finally motioned that he had finished and headed out to the streets. He was starting to think him always having an escort was getting silly. He had spent six months here and while he may not know every back alley and narrow street the way he did in Firenze or Roma, and even Venezia, he was far more comfortable here than he was when he'd first arrived. At the very least, he didn't need _Kasim_ as a guide.

" _Usta,_ " Kasim said softly as they once more took to the streets. "I have heard troubling rumors."

 _Of course he has,_ Ezio resisted any and all urges to grimace. Just because Kasim was annoying didn't mean what he said was invalid. "Tell me."

"We have reason to believe a rogue Orthodox Deacon is planning to murder the Patriarch of Konstantiniyye." Ezio slowed and frowned, looking to Kasim's earnest face. The Orthodox Church had once been part of the Catholic Church, but the regional and cultural difference had come to a head almost five centuries previous, when, in 1053, the Patriarch of Constantinopoli had closed all Latin churches, fed up with the Papacy. The following year, when word had reached Roma, the Pope sent a representative who ended up so insulted by said Patriarch, he excommunicated him. Soon everyone was excommunicating each other and the Orthodox Church went its own way from the Catholic. Where the Catholic Church followed the words of Jesus as interpreted by the Pope, in simplified terms, the Orthodox was far less centralized. Each country was its own division of Orthodox, with a ruler for the country, and each country's leader formed a sort of council. The Orthodox here in Istanbul was all Greek Orthodox, as the prior rulers had been Greek. The Church was an important part of holding the remaining Greek population together with messages passed down from each disciple of peace. To take out the Patriarch would be easily interpreted as a lack of acceptance of the Ottomans of such a foreign religion, despite the Ottomans welcoming in the Jews and Moorish from Spain and not kicking out any other religions. The Greeks felt their loss of power most keenly and such a murder would not help. It would also set the Ottomans against the Greeks, as the Greek Orthodox was the first millet, or non-Islamic group in an Islamic community to be given rights, under Ottoman rule. The Patriarch was in charge of the Greeks and with Greeks fighting back after the loss of their leader, the Ottomans would have an excuse to be rid of them.

"Do we know who this rogue Deacon is?" Ezio asked.

Kasim shook his head. "Not yet. Clues have been sparse."

"We need names first," Ezio said, taking off down the streets at a brisk walk. "It would not serve our cause to eliminate every holy man between Bursa and Belgrade. Come, we will investigate."

They headed to the Greek section of the city where, to Ezio's surprise, many of the Orthodox Church were celebrating Paraklesis.

"What exactly is Paraklesis?" Ezio asked softly of Kasim from the small alley where they watched the long procession.

"A service for the welfare of the living," Kasim replied promptly. "Do you wish for me to translate?" he asked eagerly.

" _Hayir_ ," Ezio replied firmly. Instead he watched, his eagle aware, as many deacons of what looked like different churches led a large throng of parishioners down the streets, chanting and singing. They stood quietly for some time, watching.

Kasim seemed to get anxious and didn't care for the waiting. "What is our plan, _Usta_?"

Ezio smiled. "The Orthodox millet in the city is too small to hide big secrets," Ezio explained. "Especially in this part of the city, so close to Topkapi. We will ask the clergy some questions and, if necessary, make them answer."

 _There,_ Ezio stepped forward to join to procession, Kasim shadowing behind him, until he came to a clergyman near the outskirts of the procession and looking very tired. An old man, bald and easily in his seventh decade, wiped his forehead of sweat and Ezio had no problem offering a hand and guiding him to a bench to relax on.

The thanks he gave was in Greek and despite Ezio's slow (tediously slow) learning of a few Greek words, it was all just noise to his ears. Kasim was instantly by his side and the translation was already on the tip of his lips, but Ezio ignored him.

"Good evening, holy one," he said in the most polite form of Turkish he knew.

"Ah, I should have known," the old clergyman replied. "Now that this city is Ottoman, everyone speaks Turkish."

Ezio shrugged. "I learned Turkish many years ago from a friend. Since arriving I've tried to learn some Greek as well, but I fear there are only so many languages a person can learn in their lifetime."

The Greek laughed. "True. I know only three other languages, myself. I tried a fourth, but it would not stick. How many do you know?"

"Five, including my native tongue."

"Impressive."

Ezio sat beside him and started to hold a pleasant conversation as the procession slowly passed. The clergyman was grateful for some time off his feet and, once he learned that Ezio was Italian, happily tried to debate Orthodox and Catholicism. Ezio complied with what he'd known and grown up with, but stated frankly that he didn't care for religion.

"Religion gives us guides on how to be kind to each other, how to help one another. Those messages I will always abide," Ezio explained. "But after seeing the Borgia, I think man will always be flawed in how he approaches religion because man is flawed. So since every man will interpret the Bible differently, I will follow the teachings I believe."

The clergyman chuckled. "You are an interesting child," he said, sitting back. "I have not had such a good debate for some time."

"You're welcome," Ezio replied. The procession was now well down the street, outside the listening range of any deadly deacons. Ezio glanced around the street to find any source of danger and found it clear.

He turned back to the clergyman, his face far more sober and serious.

"There are rumors," he said softly, putting a hand to the clergyman's arm, "that your Patriarch is in danger from a rogue Deacon. Does that stir any ideas?"

The clergyman immediately spat to the ground. "Ah yes," he replied with the same severity. "We have heard those rumors too. And the name behind them is always Cyril of Rhodes."

Ezio nodded.

"The Patriarch cast him out some years ago for gross misdeeds. Almost a decade now," the clergyman sighed and shook his head in disappointment. "He is banished. Anathema. If you see him in the city, you can be sure he intends to do harm, _Suikastchi_."

Ezio smiled. "You are truly a sharp old man," he complimented. "Perhaps you might describe him so that this Anathema stays gone?"

The old clergyman smiled.

Almost an hour later with perhaps one of the best descriptions of a target that Ezio had ever been given, he and Kasim were once more following the Paraklesis procession, looking anew at all the deacons and clergymen who were heading the various churches.

Kasim, by Ezio's side, was almost vibrating with energy, eager to show his prowess.

Ezio elbowed him. Hard. "Hold fast. There are a number of holy men here."

"I know what to do, _Usta_ ," Kasim replied, reigning himself in. Slightly. "And if I see an opportunity to eliminate him, I will take it. I shall look from the roofs. They provide a better angle."

Ezio hesitated, but let the over-eager Assassin go. Ezio, being on ground level, was hoping he'd be closer and could prevent Kasim from being over-eager. Humility would do the young Assassin well, if Ezio could ever provide a large enough dose of it to stick.

Still, Ezio continued moving up steadily along the procession, trusting his Eagle to spy in the crowds the flicker of gold that always indicated what he wanted. He was about half-way up the procession when he spied the deacon he wanted, a lone man in a mass of singing and chanting, none around him willing to speak to him at all.

 _Perfetto_.

Ezio started to sneak through the crowds, eyes locked onto the deacon.

From high above, however, a voice cut through the chant and bustle of the crowd, echoing down the walls of the buildings around him.

"I have him, _Usta_!"

Ezio watched as Kasim leapt from the roofs, in full spectacle of every single innocent person around him. Many screamed and separated, pushing back from what they saw as a possible suicide attempt. A good tactic to isolate a target, perhaps, but Ezio could see the trajectory and where it was going far too well.

" _Stop!_ " he bellowed, surprising those around them. " _That is not our target!_ "

But Kasim never retracted his blade. He landed on a simple deacon, blade biting deeply into the man's neck, letting him crumple down to the ground.

All around them, people screamed and pushed away, crying and sobbing. Cyril of Rhodes easily blended into the panic, and disappeared with the crowds.

From above, people started to poke their heads out of the windows, some with a morbid curiosity stayed tucked in alleys, others simply cowered in fear, unable to believe that they had just witnessed a murder.

" _Idiota! Salak! Ilive! Pezzo di merda bastardo!_ " he berated in three languages, stalking up to Kasim. He let his voice echo and reverberate, so there was no doubt of what he was saying. "Brash fool! You killed an _innocent_ man! _Aptal! Stupido!_ We go after _murderers! Killers!_ We _never_ harm the innocent!" Ezio knew that it wouldn't take long for the Ottoman guards to arrive, and this was not what he wanted them to see, Assassins killing innocent people. So the best he could do was hope that any around who knew Turkish would understand the mistake and the berating that was happening.

Kasim remained pale, shocked, and silent, uncomprehending. Ezio could see the moment when he finally understood what had just happened as he turned green and collapsed to his knees.

The Florentine Assassin had wanted this Turkish Assassin to learn humility.

But not like this.

"I... I have no excuse, _Usta_ ," Kasim gasped softly. He lowered his head further. "Forgive me."

Ezio crossed his arms, standing tall and disapprovingly.

"Even if I do," he replied quietly, his eyes flicking to those around them at what they considered a safe distance, "many others will not."

With a great sob, Kasim buried his face in his bloody hands. "Nor should they..."

Ezio let the moment hang, let this, a lesson he would rather not have given in this manner, sink in. "Take up his body and bring him to the shore. This is _your_ burden to bear."

" _Evet,_ " Kasim sobbed. "Of course."

None accosted them. Kasim, his face streaked in blood and tears, tried to stop his quiet sobbing as Ezio played guide instead, leading Kasim through the alleys and side streets until they reached the Halich where Ezio paid a boatman to loan them his boat, no questions asked.

"Commit this poor man to the sea," he told Kasim. "Then meditate on your mistake."

" _Evet, Usta,_ " Kasim whimpered, wiping more tears and blood across his face. "May the shame I feel never fade."

Ezio did not join Kasim in the boat. Instead he stepped back and let Kasim have the silence of being alone with the corpse and his failure.

"You are a harsh task-master," the clergyman from earlier said softly behind Ezio. The grandmaster had been aware of the old holy man trailing them and merely nodded.

"I wish such a lesson didn't come at such a cost."

"Yes."

Ezio walked in the rain through Galata until he returned to the derelict mosque and the more welcoming cistern and tunnels beneath. It was well past nightfall, Ezio had spent a good part of the evening with the clergyman, both as a reprieve to quietly deal on his own with the loss of innocent life that always cut through him so deeply and also learning that the clergyman intended to let the Greeks know that Cyril of Rhodes was the target.

Yusuf greeted him with a somber frown. Kasim was already back and locked in a small chamber with a hookah to better meditate. Meryem had joined him, still grieving her own mistake, and Ezio simply nodded, too tired to tell the story. Yusuf clearly knew the pertinent details so Ezio let it be.

There was more light rain the following morning, as Ezio quietly set out of headquarters by himself. He headed alone and unaccompanied into the city, making his way to Topkapi and sneaking his way in there. The pass Suleiman had given him before still let him into the first courtyard, but Ezio didn't wish to go through the bother of getting the passes necessary to get into the second courtyard or beyond. So he found a secluded corner and climbed to the roofs, careful of his footing in the light rain, and headed along the tiles into the palace proper. Slipping into the palace from a window that had been opened to try to tempt in a breeze, Ezio took a moment to let out a breath. That had been more of a challenge than he thought. The Janissaries were indeed well trained.

Still, once inside Topkapi palace, it was easy to ghost along, hiding when necessary until he came to a busier hall and then asked, in a thickened Italian accent, where _Principe_ Suleiman was, because Ezio was his new Italian teacher and Ezio had gotten lost on his way.

The clerk he first spoke to scoffed and gave only the barest of directions that lead to the third courtyard, but the next was much kinder and offered to show the way. Suleiman was in a small study, surrounded by books and scrolls, bent over a map of the Mediterranean, fingers hovering over cities and trade lines and a compass on hand to help measure distances.

" _Shehazade_ ," the clerk politely interrupted, bowing, "your Italian teacher is here for your lessons."

Suleiman stiffened, slightly, having been caught unaware, and turned. "Italian teacher...?"

Ezio stepped forward. " _Principe_ , I believe we last left off comparing masculine and feminine particles. We were looking at the example of ' _la bella menestrella_ ' and ' _il bel menestrello_ '."

Suleiman kept a properly schooled face to show nothing to the bowed clerk, but the slight widening of the eyes was enough to tell Ezio that the prince was surprised to see him.

Still, Suleiman recovered quickly and gave a slight bow of the head. " _Grazie, mio insegnante_." Suleiman smiled. And with a twinkle in his eye, he smiled more broadly and asked, "Did I say that right?"

"One refers to a teacher as _maestro,_ but otherwise, _molto bene_."

The clerk left them to their "lesson" and Ezio sat down with the prince. The rain outside had stopped, but the sky was still covered with thick clouds.

"When you said you'd find me, I was not sure I believed you." Suleiman started setting aside his notes and maps. "Or so soon."

Ezio kept watching the clouds outside, collecting his thoughts and Suleiman seemed to understand and sat back, staying quiet.

"You are very young," Ezio said softly. "And you have just become a governor." The old Assassin sighed and looked to the young prince. "There will be a time. It comes to all of us, when we make a mistake so large it seems to encompass us. I pray that whatever your mistake is, that it does not come at the price of others."

Suleiman listened, somberly, and nodded heavily, and Ezio couldn't help but wonder if this boy had ever had such advice before. Surely from his father? But Ezio pushed it aside.

"You saw that there is more than just me, correct?"

" _Evet._ "

"One of my younger, brasher apprentices did something very stupid," Ezio explained. "He has made his mistake that has and will encompass him for the rest of his life. The cost was a life of an innocent."

Suleiman looked down, allowing the moment to settle. "Why have you come to tell me this?"

"Because I don't know how much you know of everything that goes on in this vast city," Ezio replied. "Because I want you to know that we value life, even as we take it, and that we work hard to _know_ who is innocent and who isn't. But even with all our care, mistakes can and will be made. And we must live with them."

"I understand."

"You don't. And I hope you never will," Ezio replied. Standing, he gave a small bow. "I've said what I wanted. I'll be on my way."

He started to leave, but Suleiman stood quickly. "Wait!"

Ezio paused, turning just enough to see the young prince.

"I-" Suleiman paused to compose himself. "Have you learned anything yet?"

Ezio smiled. Still a prince used to giving orders, no matter how polite. And while a good cover and excuse to keep Ezio around to probe and figure out more of Ezio's mysteries, Ezio had been through plots and intrigues too long to not see it.

"When I have the time," he replied, giving a warm smile.

Suleiman frowned, disappointed, before smiling again. "And what about my Italian lesson?"

Ezio chuckled. "Keep your sentences straight with the male and female particles and we'll see how you improve."

And Ezio was gone.

It was a long week. Kasim didn't seek him out at all, indeed even seemed to avoid Ezio on some level as he dealt with his shame and grief. Yusuf spoke with Kasim and Ezio let himself fade to the background. He had spent over a decade building and leading the Assassins of Roma and he was accustomed to being there for them in their highs and lows. But that was not the case here in Istanbul. Here he was a visiting master, a legend, but not their leader. Even as he had struggled since the Little Judgment to lead and provide for them, Yusuf and his amiable, affable, charismatic nature made every Assassin seek him out for advice of this sort.

Ezio was suddenly homesick. He missed Claudia and Federica, Machiavelli and the assassins. He missed the hills and fields of Monteriggioni, the warmth of Firenze, the canals of Venezia, the ancient ruins of Roma. The food, the wine, the scents, the sounds. The openness.

Gone for well over a year and suddenly all Ezio wanted to do was go home. So he did the next best thing.

The week had varied clouds and sunshine before once again settling to a light rain. Ezio had spent his spare time pounding around Galata and the Venetian Quarter, looking for just what he wanted. There were no restaurants in Istanbul, but there _were_ food vendors. And, most importantly, wine sellers. By the end of the week, he knew just who had what he wanted. So, starting in the late afternoon, he went from vendor to seller to shop to get exactly that. Obelius took him to a small inn that was a den and he used the small kitchen to cook. Ezio never claimed to be a good cook. Claudia had learned more than him of food preparation, but he had cooked for Petruccio to make him feel better. All three of them: he, Claudia, and Federico, would make small meals or snacks in hopes of raising Petruccio's spirits when he was ill, and their mother, Maria, who ran a bakery from their home, made _sure_ they knew how to make bread.

By the time he was done, he had a passable dish of _cacio de pepe_ ; simple pasta with sheep cheese, a Roman favorite.

The food was tucked into a basket, the wine bought on the way, as Ezio went to the one place in the city where he was guaranteed intelligent and engaging conversation in proper Italian.

Sofia was surprised when she greeted them.

"Ezio! I wasn't expecting you," she smiled brightly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Ezio offered his own smile, just glad to be in her presence, and said, "You've been working very hard on that map. I thought you needed a break."

Her answering smile was radiant.

Obelius disappeared back into the city and Sofia took Ezio up to the second floor, just as overflowing with books as downstairs, and set a table overlooking the front entrance. Evening settled, the fire down below was warm and inviting and the patter of rain was relaxing. When she saw the wine, Sofia gave a lovely little giggle.

"Why Ezio, are you planning on getting me drunk?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Only as drunk as I get myself," he replied lightly, pouring.

"Well, men _do_ have a lower tolerance than women," was her coy reply. "When I was nine, my uncle was visiting and brought his son, who was ten. We both were able to break into my parent's wine, don't ask me how, and he was drunk long before I was even tipsy."

For the first time in what felt like ages, Ezio laughed, deep and full throated as he pictured Sofia, somewhat wobbly, dragging her drunk cousin away from the wines.

This was, by far, what he needed.

They talked and flirted over the meal, then went down to the sitting area by the fire to finish the wine with a nightcap.

It was very late, well past all the Muslim prayers when they finally started to wind down. Ezio was pleasantly relaxed and Sofia was still smiling.

"Thank you, Ezio," Sofia said softly. "I didn't realize how much I needed a break."

"I'm glad I could help," he replied with a soft, gentle smile. He had needed the break as well, but kept that to himself. He didn't want to think or talk about it at the moment, too content as he was. He let the moment be, settling into the quiet. He didn't want to leave. To go back to the Assassins and their cistern headquarters. It was far too comfortable here.

But, with a sigh, he stood.

"I mustn't keep you," he said.

Sofia looked disappointed, a frown removing the usual quirk of her lips that was always smiling. "It's very late, Ezio," she said. "I wouldn't mind if you spent the night."

Ezio blinked, thinking he heard a certain invitation, but decided he really _had_ drunk too much wine. "My thanks, but I have responsibilities and must be on my way."

Sofia walked him to the door.

"Be safe, Ezio," she said, her brow just barely pinching in worry.

Ezio chuckled. "There is nothing out there I fear."

Sofia's lips were quirking into that hint of a smile again. "Always so mysterious, whenever you come by."

"A habit hard to break."

Sofia looked into his eyes and he felt she could see his very soul. Then she looked away. "I'll be seeing you," she said finally, opening the door.

"Until then."

The time spent with Sofia was a wonder, and Ezio felt all the better for it. Yusuf noted his lighter step and the few more smiles he gave that were more sincere than ironic and told him flatly that whatever he had done needed to be done more regularly.

Ezio chuckled.

"Now, _Usta_ , I'll be meeting with Kizzy this afternoon-"

"And will be there until morning I'm sure."

Yusuf grinned widely. "I hope so! But Piri has sent word about a Greek merchant who's been getting harassed at the Kapalicharshi."

Ezio narrowed his eyes. "And one of our journeyman won't handle it?"

Yusuf offered his usual grin. "Ah, but don't you remember, most of them are observing the Janissaries, per your little mission from our _Shehzadem_."

"True. Very well."

So Ezio and Obelius were once more on the streets of the southern half of Istanbul. Obelius was a Greek Assassin, his grandfather being one of the few Assassins who had struggled to exist under the Byzantium rule and had trained, briefly, with Ezio's own father. Barely over seventeen, the young Assassin had been one of the journeymen Yusuf had promoted after the Little Judgment had so devastated their numbers. It was clear that he'd had to grow up fast over the course of his life. He conducted himself in a somber, serious tone, but his youth would burst through when emotional over something. He could vacillate from loud anger to bubbling laughter if his mood was strong enough, but always worked to revert to that somber seriousness he needed to survive his quick maturation. He would settle with age and experience. In a sad way, Ezio was reminded of himself after watching half his family die. He had worked hard to be the man of the house but his own teenage volatility and grief would peak through. _Zio_ Mario had helped temper his outbursts and Ezio did what he could to do the same for Obelius.

Arriving at Piri's small closet of a room at the Kapalicharshi, the old sailor was not at his maps, for once, instead at a small desk that was unburied from the last time Ezio had been there two weeks prior, and he was setting up bombs.

"Ah, Lothario, welcome back."

"Ezio."

"Whatever."

"We understand a merchant has been getting harassed?" Ezio asked.

" _Evet_ ," Piri nodded. "An honest man. He has stopped by from time to time for conversation. We were on the same ship for a few years and he was always a straight-forward man."

"Then we should ensure that he is no longer targeted."

Piri nodded. "He told me he was going to stay home for a few days. After some of the turmoil he's faced I don't blame him. But I doubt he'll be left alone, even at home. The Byzantines see him as too much of a sympathizer to us Ottomans."

Ezio nodded. "Still, I doubt he'd like to see his countrymen killed."

Obelius let out a dark chuckle. "If he's anything like me, he'd love to see his abusers slaughtered. But the everyday citizens? No."

Ezio frowned, not liking the darker undertone, and wondered what his childhood had been like to make him grow up so fast and so bitter.

"Then try this," Piri said, handing over the bombs he had just been making. "Caltrop bombs. A non-lethal method of stopping pursuers."

"I like the sound of that," Ezio smirked.

"Heh." Piri walked around to the table, looking at his maps again. "When I first sailed with my _Amca_ Kamal more than two decades ago, we had quite a lot of fun with these in many rowdy ports. In Rodos, for instance, it was so easy to lure the Hospitaliers from their palace posts, right into a patch of caltrops. And to see them dancing in the street in a full suit of armor. Nothing is more undignified. Try it. You'll see."

"We'll keep that in mind."

Obelius took the bombs and put them in his pouches. Ezio nodded to the old sailor. "We'll ensure your old friend's safety."

" _Teshekkurler,_ " Piri thanked them.

Obelius and Ezio took to the roofs soon after leaving. The merchant's home was almost an hour's walk through the streets and the higher road would be faster. Piri had given precise directions and descriptions of the home and also what the merchant looked like and it didn't take long to find the home in question under the partly cloudy sky.

It was a wide street, though not a proper thoroughfare, and the home in question was already under assault. Byzantines, brazenly wearing their red armor in the Ottoman city, were pounding on the door, shouting, leaving the pedestrians to give a wide berth to avoid any trouble.

"I have been tolerant with you!" Obelius translated the captain's shouts. "But my patience has its limits!"

"Obelius!"

" _Evet, Usta_!" A caltrop bomb quickly exploded at the feet of the Byzantines leaving them bouncing and indeed, almost dancing as Piri had suggested. Both Ezio and Obelius were swiftly dropping with hidden blades extended into the Byzantine necks.

With such visible executions, the citizens around who had given such a wide berth started screaming and running, and a nearby patrol of guards came running.

" _Merda_ ," Ezio cursed. "We must hurry!"

"Of course!" Obelius shouted, both taking off down the streets.

Unfortunately, one of the patrolling Ottomans seemed to have as much speed as a thief or assassin, catching up. Before Ezio could even shout an order Obelius had dropped another caltrop bomb and they ducked down an alley and up a ladder, leaving the Ottomans struggling as they tripped over the spiked balls and quickly shredded their leather boots.

Having escaped the Ottomans, Ezio took a moment to steady his breathing and turned to the somber teenager. "Piri _Reis_ won't have to worry about his friend anymore."

Obelius smiled. "Indeed."

October brought comfortable temperatures and comfortable air. Light rain splattered about the cloudier skies, making days outside a guess; capricious and never certain. More letters came, this time another missive from Bursa with and update, as well as more information: Janissaries were selling access to viziers that were visiting from the Sublime Porte, and _that_ gave further credence to Suleiman's worry about the loyalty of the Janissaries to the _sultan_ , and further brought into question their connection to the Byzantines. Ezio did not take it at face value, however; corruptions existed on every level, and one did not always connect to the other. The lower levels of skullduggery did not bother him _too_ much, but that was only if it didn't connect higher up the chain of command, and that remained to be seen. Yusuf's assassins reported that the Janissaries centralized in three locations: the First Courtyard in Topkapi, where they were quartered; the Hippodrome, where they trained; and the Kapalicharshi, where they spent their free time. This was not enough room to house all of them, but Ezio wanted a better feel of the structure of the army before he started tracing lines of influence. That took time, in spite of the young prince's impatience, and however pressed Ezio was in routing out the Byzantines and their influence for the keys to Masyaf, he was _not_ his younger, brasher self.

With that thought in mind, he went south to one of the dens to get another report on the Janissaries.

Meryem was there, eyes alight.

"Promising news, _Usta_ ," she said, pulling her hood over her head. "The actress Lysistrata is making a public performance under a stage name."

Ezio blinked at the news. "Hmm. She knows it is wiser to stay hidden, but her vanity is getting the better of her. This is telling, it will give us an advantage."

Meryem nodded. "Follow me. We will get her this time."

The two moved out into the streets, Meryem changing her gate and tugging at her armor until she looked more like a man in her bearing. Her face was tight, eyes hard and fists digging so deep into her palms Ezio realized she was in no frame of mind to do this mission successfully. He asked the first question that came to mind.

"Which is easier for you, being a woman or being a man?"

Meryem startled at the question, completely disjointing her thoughts. "Uh, a woman," she said, regathering herself. "Without question."

"Why?" he asked. "You are covered from head to toe, hidden from the world in your culture, you do not participate in the world as you should, you do not participate in social gatherings. Why would you prefer that?"

Meryem offered him a confused look. "Because it is easier," she said again. "I do not know how women in your country are treated, _Usta_ , but there is no judgment here. My parents, when they lived in Spain... I heard stories how how women were judged by their beauty, their very dowries were used as bribery to sell off an unattractive woman. Covered as we are here, men must instead judge us by other standards when they see us. It also makes us invisible, how can someone identify me when I am, as you say, covered head to toe? You praise me on my invisibility, but there is very little to it as a woman. I work much harder when I must be a man, because you men constantly have to prove how masculine you all are. Your sense of competition makes life very tedious, and I much rather gossiping with other women to get my information."

"And is that how you learned of Lysistrata?" Ezio asked.

"Why, yes," she said.

"You possess a wisdom few understand," Ezio said. "I look forward to watching you teach it to others."

They walked a ways further, Meryem's eyes wide as she slowly absorbed Ezio's praise, and her shoulders and stance slowly relaxed. Good. The pair reached the port, taking to the roofs and spying one of the plazas overlooking the docks flooded with people. Lysistrata, flanked by two men in heavy Byzantine armor, spoke to the crowd in passion, gesticulating, moving, theatrical in everything she did. In the crowd were more Byzantines, the plaza was flooded with red.

"She is bold," Meryem said, "You must admit that."

Ezio shook his head. "Boldness is often a sign of weakness. A true master never takes unnecessary risks. I learned this lesson the hard way many years ago."

"Will you wait here, or should we do this together?" Meryem asked.

"As I said, no unnecessary risks. We go together. And if you do not get her, I will." Meryem nodded, but Ezio touched her shoulder. "No mistakes. Take your time, and plan your attack."

" _Evet,_ _Usta_ ," she replied, her voice hard, tightness returning to her face. She was not coiled, however, there was a confidence in her that Ezio had been waiting to see. "I will wait an entire year if I have to."

The grandmaster smiled. "I hope it does not come to that," he said with a hint of Florentine irony. "I am a busy man."

They split up after that, trailing along the roofs. Ezio took out the Templar riflemen; the last thing they needed were bullets being shot into the crowds. From above he could see Meryem, a _hijab_ and shawl covering her assassin armor and making her once again a woman, slowly weaved through the crowds, utterly invisible. Ezio left her to her task, finishing up with the men on the roofs and then joining her in the crowds. Hooded and shifting to the gate of an older man (and he did _not_ acknowledge that he was, in fact, an older man), he shuffled through the crowds, equally invisible. He made his way to the front, listening to the actress' speech. She was artful, to be expected of her profession; she spoke of bearing indignities, childish demands, and being hidden and quiet. There was a metaphor in there, a subtext Ezio did not know since he had not heard the entire speech. His eagle drew his gaze to his left, and he saw Meryem out of the crowd and climb a crane. A few people spotted her and pointed, but Lysistrata saw her doom too late, as Meryem leapt with textbook precision and assassinated her.

Shock fell over the crowd for a brief moment, everyone frozen.

"You do your duty well, Assassin..." Lysistrata grunted, willing to turn her very death into a stage performance, "but you do it with such coldness that I almost pity you. The lives you fight to protect are dull, weak, and lacking luster. What a bland world it will be if you Assassins get your way."

Meryem shook her head, leaning forward. "The world reflects the colors in our own souls. If your world is as dull as you say, then I pity you, for my world is vibrant in color and culture, tradition and progress. _That_ is the world I am making. _Huzur ichinde yatsın_ ," she added, giving last rites.

" _Suikastchi!_ "

"Make for the mosque! _Make for the mosque!_ "

"Run, keep my head down and run!"

"I'm not part of this!"

The Byzantine guards broke from their stupor and wielded massive battle axes. There was no more time left, and Ezio lifted his hidden gun, cursing as he fired into the faceplate of one even as Meryem realized the danger and plunged her hidden blade into the second.

"Run!" Ezio shouted, and the journeyman needed no other instruction, she was already flying up the stairs, Ezio hot on her heels and letting her take the lead through the narrow alleys and steps and finally up a ladder to the endless wooden shingles of the city. A light rain began to fall, and Ezio spied a sky garden to hide in. The two disappeared into its depths, panting. An Ottoman guard was shouting somewhere, and Ezio shoved Meryem to the floor, pressing on top of her and holding his breath. Several footfalls blew past them, curses in Greek and Turkish, and then, finally, silence. The light patter of the rain was relaxing, and Ezio risked getting up to his knees and peeking out. They were clear. Sighing, he leaned back against the garden. "That was _excellent_ ," he said.

Meryem flushed. " _Teshekkür ederim,_ " she said, a little embarrassed at the praise.

They waited out the passing storm, and an hour later they were back in the den and Ezio was being escorted back to Galata and the underground cistern. Yusuf was in another meeting with Hayri, Cenk, and Kizzy, the four guilds still learning how to work around and support each other. Dogan, strong and silent as always, was at Yusuf's shoulder and absorbing everything in perfect detail. When they let out, Ezio pulled the Turkish master aside with an important question.

"What is your ceremony for promoting assassins?" he asked.

Yusuf blinked, taken aback slightly by the question. "We haven't had time for ceremonies," he said, "After Little Judgment Day we were struggling to survive."

"Can you make the time now?"

Yusuf grinned. " _Evet_ , and I think we should make it very special."

So it was that by the end of the week the entire guild was packed into the hideout. The children watched by Romani, and the heads of the other guilds standing in their best: Kizzy in her fancy robes, Cenk in his best armor, and Hayri clean and freshly shaved. By them were others: Obelius, who was already an assassin, Fusun, and others. And, too, there was Meryem, journeyman. They stood not in the cistern, but in the abandoned mosque, brazier at the head of the column. The crowds were spread out into rows – roughly – and Yusuf and Ezio walked up the aisle. Yusuf wore a clean uniform, and Ezio had his clothes cleaned and starched, his small additions of armor burnished and gleaming in the firelight. Incense normally burning in _hookah_ filled the air, tendrils of smoke enticing everyone. There was no talking, no whispering, and when the two masters reached the guild heads and others, everyone instinctively straightened.

" _Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine,_ " Yusuf said, the normal grin in his voice gone, the solemnity of the moment hanging in the air. "The wisdom of our Creed is revealed in these words. We work in the dark, to serve the light. We are Assassins."

"Where men hold power over others, we remind them that they are merely men," Ezio said. "Where women are treated as things, we show them they are equal; where nobility are bigoted, we teach them real nobility; where people are owned, we reveal the freedom of choice; where justice is ignored, we fight for what is right; where ignorance is prevalent, we imbue knowledge. We are Assassins."

Kizzy stepped forward first, and Yusuf took the brazier and burned her finger, Ezio following it up with a basin of water and, one by one, the men and women assembled at the head of the mosque were inducted into the Order.

"Since Little Judgment Day," Yusuf said, "We have been moving from one crisis to the next. Life has always gotten in the way; daily pressures, schemes, assaults and defense. 'It can be put off,' we think, 'We can afford to wait.' But now, the wait is over. So many of you have been Assassins for over two years, but now the entire Order knows it. Many of you had proven your skills, and are ready for the Leap. And some of you," he eyed the other guild heads, "are still new to it all; but know that all of you, every single one of you, is valued in this Order. We welcome you to the Brotherhood, and we rejoice to receive you."

"Were other men blindly follow the truth, remember..."

"Nothing is true."

"Where other men are limited by morality or law, remember..."

"Everything is permitted."

" _Hichbir shey doğru, her sheye izin vardır._ " Nothing is true, everything is permitted. Ezio, even after so many months in the Ottoman Empire was not used to hearing the phrase in Turkish, but it was _beautiful_ to hear; the rhythm and cadence of the Turkish language gave it a sense of poetry that his native Italian didn't seem to provide. Yusuf disappeared to the roofs with the new and old Assassins to perform the Leap of Faith, and Ezio watched the novices and apprentices, the journeymen and assassins talking amongst themselves, sharing stories and aspirations, awe and marvel at what was the only true ceremony of the Order. The weight of it left all of them hushed and hopeful, looking to the future and seeing only good things.

Ezio was envious, in a way, because he had lost sight of that hope, of that dedication to a future of sunshine and flowers. He had seen too much, _done_ too much, and it was the loss of that that made him frown and disappear into the shadows. When had it disappeared? When had his outlook on the future turned so dark? When had he realized that chaos was the eventual outcome of... of everything? Cesare Borgia? The fall of Monteriggioni? The death of his father and brothers? Dark thoughts permeated even something as sacred as watching assassins being inducted into the Order, and Ezio worried about how pernicious his depression was.

It was well past midnight, Ezio ruminating over a glass of wine, when Yusuf appeared and sat with him in the library. Silence spread between them, dim candlelight casting deep shadows on both of their faces.

"Ezio," Yusuf said softly. "What is it you're looking for?"

The greying grandmaster scoffed. "I wish I knew," he said. "I can only hope Altaïr's hidden library holds the answers."

Yusuf rested his head on his hand, crossing his legs. "Wisdom doesn't come from a book, _Usta_ da Firenze. It comes from _life_. You need to live more."

"... Sometimes I wonder if I've lived enough."

The Turk's eyes narrowed. "That is a dangerous way to think, Ezio."

"I know. It nearly got me killed at Masyaf." He sipped his wine. "I know the melancholy that surrounds me. I am fighting against it as best I know how."

Silence settled over them again, long and deep, before Yusuf reached over and patted Ezio's knee.

"Don't worry, _Usta_ da Firenze. We'll straighten you out."

Ezio smiled, softly, and the two men went to bed.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, a time killing chapter. But in spite of that a lot happens here. Were we the only one's who thought Kasim's master assassin mission was devastating? Every time we play the game we make a point of putting women in all the dens, except that one because we want a guy to be the one who breaks into peaces like that. Er, that probably says something about us somehow... o.O'
> 
> We also have a few small memories with Suleiman and Sofia respectively. The next major memory sequences don't happen for a bit, so we occasionally spin their plates as necessary - especially for Sofia because of how her memories will be different. And as a side note: silly Ezio! She totally was giving and invitation; you must really be depressed if you thought you were just imagining it!
> 
> But the highlight for us, as it has been whenever it happens, if the induction ceremony. The traditions haven't changed all that much from Italy, but Yusuf gets to really shine in this moment, because he's the one who gives it the weight and meaning instead of Ezio. He also gets to shine because he's the only one who really sees the depression Ezio is suffering from, and like a good friend he does what he can. Anything to endear him at this point, right? :P
> 
> Muslim Lesson: While bilal and imam take care of the day to day rigors of Islamic faith, for the scholarly side we have sheikh and ustadh. Ustadh are the men and women who teach children and converts about Islam. The two of us as children remember going to church in the evenings after school and were taught how to be catholic, there were children's workbooks to be filled out and quizzes and everything; that's what the ustadh do. Sheikh, literally translated to "old man," are men and women who are considered deeply versed in the Qu'ran and the Hadith and make a study of it. A famous American sheikh is Sh. Hamza Yusuf. Our beta gave us a bunch of his youtube videos, you can look him up yourself.
> 
> For our fic, Azize is an ustadzah. Yusuf playfully calls her a sheikh.
> 
> Next chapter: Author's do backflips with the kitchen-sink-plot, a Sofia memory is covered, and an assassin is seriously injured. Meh, anything to kill time, right? :D


	8. Quiet Flirting

The next morning was another meeting with Yusuf, this time with Dogan, the newly minted assassin Meryem, and Fusun and Obelius. Also in the party was the timid Sila, and a Greek assassin Ezio had not yet been introduced to. "You are my choices," Yusuf said. "Each of you will be in charge of the den you house out in the city. You'll be in charge of everyone under your roof, you'll be in charge of training them, looking after them, keeping your district safe, gathering information, farming out assignments as they come in, and informing me when things go to _bok_ **."**

"It's nothing new then," Fusun said. "I've always been doing it."

Meryem was wide eyed, as was Sila. "What do I need to know?" she said quickly, her dark curls falling into her face. "Who do I talk to? What do I do? Where-"

"Dogan will walk you through it," Yusuf said, "I know it's all new for you, but now that some of our more pressing needs are being met, it's past time we overhauled our hierarchy. A great man told me a while ago that I can't do this all myself. And so I turn to you."

Sila was positively white. "But... but..."

"Don't worry, my little mouse," Yusuf said. "You'll be _fine_."

The words did not help, she looked ready to faint, and the tiny but taciturn Fusun put a hand on her shoulder to steady her.

Obelius frowned, eyes darting around to count. "We're short a den," he said.

"I know," Yusuf said. "I have a candidate in mind, but we'll see." He turned and nodded to Dogan.

"Here is how it works..."

For the next hour Dogan and Yusuf broke down how the dens were run: supplies, cost of maintenance, pigeon coup locations and signals, how to access certain watchtowers, routines and rotations, and other gritty details of running one section of the order. Meryem and Sila were pale with the responsibility, but one at least bit her lip and resolved to do her best. Sila looked about ready to run, and Ezio pulled her aside.

"What is it?" he asked once they were in the main chamber of the underground cistern.

But she shook her head, ducking out and disappearing. Ezio sighed; perhaps Yusuf would have better luck.

Back in the meeting, Fusun was doing some explaining of something already going on in her district. "A heated conflict is brewing between two factions of Romanies. One group – Kizzy's – has banded together against a woman they call Mirela, accusing her of swindling the poor on dozens of occasions. As we speak, they are on their way to exile this trickster, by force if necessary."

"By your tone, you seem to believe there will be trouble," Yusuf said, his interest immediately perked once his lover's name was mentioned.

"I do. Mirela is a frightening woman and her temper is well known. I fear for anyone who crosses her. She's devious and subtle; you never know how she will get you, but you always know when she does that it was her. It will get ugly."

"Then we should give these Romanies our support," Yusuf said. "No good can come of this fight if it escalates."

"That's rather why I brought it up," Fusun said, tone derisive.

"We can escort the Romanies to the meeting," Ezio suggested, "and provide protection until the impasse is resolved."

"A wise plan, for an idiot," Fusun said, "but it might work if we do it in secret. If Mirela gets wind that the Assassins are aiding her opposition, there is no telling what she might do. It's too bad Kizzy got the burn last night. That will be a dead giveaway."

Yusuf shook his head. "I doubt any of us could stop her from going."

Fusun leveled a flat gaze. "But you _can_ keep her from talking," Fusun countered. "Use your masculine charm to convince her to elect a spokeswoman. Or, failing that, bed her until it's all over."

A group chuckle rippled through the meeting, and everyone was dismissed. Yusuf and Ezio and Fusun crossed the Halich to the far west side of the city; it held the poorest of the poor. Houses were rotting and haggard, underdeveloped, and everyone was in rags and begging for coin. As far from Topkapi as one could get without crossing the old city walls, the wealth and power of the Sublime Porte was invisible here. Kizzy, freshly burned finger wrapped in an embroidered scarf, nodded at the thought of having back up for the meeting, but turned bright red at the thought that she wouldn't take the lead. Ezio smartly joined Fusun as the two lovers hashed it out, instead talking to the other Romani to ascertain what they expected. No one was completely sure, Mirela was a trickster of the highest order – she never did the same thing twice, and her level of subtlety was impressive. It had apparently taken the Romani over two years to figure out she had been skiving the poor.

Finally, however, Yusuf and Kizzy settled their fight, and Yusuf disappeared into one of the Romani wagons.

"He'll be dressed as one of us," Kizzy said, approaching Ezio and Fusun. She was still bright red, but at least she wasn't shouting any more. "I'll let someone else speak for me, damn him, and you're to make sure no one interferes with the meeting. Agreed?"

" _Evet_ ," Fusun said. "I'll go get changed." Then she jabbed a finger at Ezio. "He'll take the roofs."

Ezio decided not to be put out by not getting a say in the matter; he really was the best choice to be on the roofs regardless, and so he found a ladder and waited for Yusuf and Fusun to finish changing. Though he had seen the Romani assassin in her traditional clothes, Yusuf was a sight to behold. In a thin shirt and breeches, a tambourine and his omnipresent headbands, earrings peeking out from his greasy hair and wrists adorned with bracelets, and barefoot, he looked nothing at all like he did in his assassin garb. His fluid movements looked more acrobatic here, and at last Ezio could see why he was purportedly a dancer as a child. Yusuf was light on his feet, and his affable smile made him more suited to be an entertainer.

They walked along the edge of the Lycus River for a time while it was above ground before turning south and weaving through the streets and alleys and curves. Ezio was perfectly comfortable on the roofline, eagle awake and crossbow in hand as he kept his eyes roving over the crowds, looking for hints or red or dissent. Kizzy was talking heatedly with Fusun and one of her supporters, Yusuf looking on and occasionally offering a comment of his own. Slowly they turned back and appeared at a bridge crossing the shallow river, where a Romani in deep blue stood.

Kizzy's spokeswomen stepped forward. "You crook!" she hissed, obviously worked up by Kizzy. "You charlatan! How dare you defile our people? How dare you turn the city against us, simply to satisfy your greed? You've robbed the poor, you've robbed _us_ , and we won't stand for it any more. You're _gone_ , do you understand? You are contaminated, impure; we turn our backs on you, you are exiled, you are unwelcome among us. Be gone, _Gadjo,_ and steal from someone else!"

Cool, almost cold, the Romani in blue turned around. Her eyes were hard, distant, even bored. "Keep your voice down," she ordered, "You know nothing of my motives."

That only enraged the spokeswoman further. "I will _not_ be silent!" She turned to the growing crowd. Ezio eyed the impoverished, spotting an Ottoman patrol trying to make their way through. Would they try to break up the meeting? "This woman is a trickster! A cheat! She robs the poor of their money by preying on their fears! She hoards what she takes for herself, and has even stolen from her own people! She is not to be trusted by _anyone_ , and you would all do well to shun her as we now do!"

Mirela the trickster straightened her shoulders and leveled a narrow gaze. "You will regret taking that tone with me," she said, walking forward menacingly. The moment hung in the air, pregnant with the threat, but the woman in blue merely shouldered the spokeswoman away and leveled a hard gaze at Kizzy. "Enjoy your freedom while it lasts," she offered, before walking across the bridge and slowly disappearing into the crowds.

The Ottoman patrol was nearly upon them now, and Ezio was relieved that things had ended peacefully.

And then the spokeswoman fell.

Kizzy was immediately at her friend's side. "What's wrong?" she demanded, drawing the attention of the guards. Yusuf stepped forward, and Fusun knelt down as well.

"... That _orospu..._ " she cursed. "She... she poisoned me!" Those were her last words, however, as she began to gurgle and writhe, spittle flying from her mouth as her eyes glazed over until, at last, she died.

"Ah!" one of the Ottoman guards said, and suddenly Ezio knew exactly what the trickster Mirela had done. "That woman said she was poisoned. Murderers! Surrender yourselves! Stop right there!"

Kizzy was beside herself. "We did _nothing_!" she shouted, incredulous. "That _orospu_ did this because we exiled her!"

"We can sort it out at the guardhouse," the Ottoman said, his cohorts placing their hands on their swords. "Will you come quietly?"

"There's hardly any need for that," Fusun said sweetly, her normally sour disposition nowhere to be seen. She stepped forward, tiny against the height of the Ottomans, and she placed a small hand on one armored fist. "I saw you before. You heard the fighting, _evet_? There was so much-"

" _Will you come quietly_?"

 _Merda_.

Ezio spotted a haystack and took a leap. The Romani were not respected by the Ottomans – were they even considered a millet of equal rights? – they were not going to listen to them. Yusuf and Fusun, dressed as Romani, would have no sway. Ezio, however, was dressed as an Ottoman, and so he moved forward. "Soldiers!" he bellowed. All four looked at Ezio with irritated faces, and so the greying grandmaster quickly assumed a more conciliatory tone. " _Efendim_ ," he said politely, "There has been a grave misunderstanding. In your haste to serve justice, you let the real murderer slip away. These women are innocent."

"Pah! And how would you know?" the head guard demanded.

"Because they fought," Ezio said. "There was another woman here, being accused of trickery and thievery, these women exiled her, and she threatened revenge. Now, minutes later, her accuser is dead and you are here, conveniently, to arrest her compatriots. Others in the crowd heard the argument. If you do not believe me, someone might be brave enough to come forward."

One guard, very young, looked to his leader. "It _was_ a woman who said a murder had been committed," he whispered.

"Was she dressed in blue?" Ezio asked, pressing the point, "Dark skin, much leg visible?"

All the Ottomans shifted on their feet, confirming it. The head of the patrol turned narrow eyes to Ezio, something glinting in his eyes. "Do I know you?" he asked slowly.

Ezio considered possible responses, but the guard's eyes suddenly doubled in size and he bowed deeply. "Forgive me, _beyefendim_ , I did not recognize you outside the palace, I apologize. Please, send my regards to _Shehzade_ Suleiman."

Not about to pass up an opportunity when it presented itself, Ezio bowed his head a respectable depth. "I am a private man, _efendim_ , much like the honored _sultan_ and his family, I prefer to keep my affairs to myself, but a man cannot stand idle when injustice is about to fall and he can prevent it. I am honored I was able to do good this day, and I will convey your diligence in pursuing this vile murderess to the _Shehzadem_."

" _Evet, beyefendi_ ," the guard said, and he turned to his cohort. "You heard him. Let's look for that trickster, she might still be in the area!"

The guards disappeared, but the damage had already been done. Ezio turned to see Kizzy and Fusun crouched over the body of the Romani, Kizzy's face streaked with tears while Yusuf bent down and quietly picked up the corpse. The Romani woman wailed and shrieked all the way back to their encampment, and the cadaver's belongings were quickly gathered. Fusun explained that death was seen as impure in Romani culture, and that she and her belongings were to be buried. The family, too, would be impure for a time, and Ezio learned belatedly that the spokeswoman had been Kizzy's first cousin. The weight of the death was suddenly much heavier; Ezio knew about poisons, had taught and been taught, had used them himself, and had assassins who specialized in it. He should have known that the trickster Mirela's deliberate shouldering of Kizzy's relative was deadly, there should have been more to do.

But what else could have been done? Ezio was on the roofs, two assassins – one a master – were with Kizzy as the confrontation was drawn out. Not every contingency could be accounted for, and Mirela was notoriously devious in her means of revenge. Ezio's work with the guards may have driven her to hiding for a time, but she would be back, and the fight would begin all over again. Chaos was alive and well, even in the city of Constantinopoli, and Ezio just felt tired as he was ushered away from the burial, unwelcome in a private ceremony. Yusuf, too, was thrown out, and there was a decidedly red mark on his cheek.

"This was not our finest day," he said, the usual levity gone from his voice. He rubbed his face. "I will feel the sting of this for several weeks I fear."

"Does the _donna_ Kizzy blame you for this?"

"Yes and no," Yusuf replied, working his jaw and looking for a ferry to take them back to Galata. "She understands that we did our best, but we are here and that Mirela is not, and she is a veritable cannon when she feels something strongly." He winced, touching his cheek again. " _Very_ strongly," he muttered.

By evening Fusun returned, somehow looking even smaller after the events of the day, and she marched right up to Ezio and Yusuf. "I will stop her before this gets out of hand," she said solemnly, her sour attitude once more missing. "I give you my word, _Usta_."

" _Bene,_ " Ezio said, and Yusuf nodded his agreement. "We will speak again soon."

Another letter from Bursa arrived the next day; the man begging protection for his family had his worst fears realized, only now evidence hinted that the philanthropist himself was behind the kidnapping, and Ezio wrote a quick missive of directions in reply before taking Obelius, the young Greek Assassin, as his escort. The collection of orphans came shrieking by, their journeyman teachers chasing after them and one by one sitting them in front of a chalkboard and settling them down. A thief came darting in with a message from Yusuf, promising another busy day for the Turkish Mentor, and Ezio made his way to the Kapalicharshi to speak to Piri, hoping for distraction from the disappointment of the previous day.

Piri seemed particularly colorful when Ezio walked in.

" _Kopekoglu_!" he was cursing. "I need to reconcile these ancient Greek maps with data from Columbus _Reis_ , but this is like comparing maps of the moon and the earth. What a mess!"

"I see you are enjoying your work," Ezio said with Florentine irony.

The Turkish bomb master looked up. "Ah, Lothario! Cheer me up. Let me teach you something. Help me get my mind off of this idiocy."

With no other preamble, Ezio and Piri discussed bombs and their uses, Piri sharing stories of his days as a corsair with his uncle Kemel, talking about shipping all the Spanish Moors to Istanbul during the Inquisition, and discussing creative uses for Piri's creations.

 **"** What about these poison bombs? How lethal are they?"

"Quite lethal, my friend. We distill our poison from the datura plant. A pretty little flower with a deadly secret. This one kills... slowly but surely. We have to be very careful with them, for our own sakes as well as others'. Dropping one by accident is no way to die, they work best with trip-wires."

"Trip-wires?"

" _Evet._ A trip-wire bomb. One of the more subtle methods we have of removing your opponent's feet. You see these filaments in the side?" Piri pulled out a sample casing and showed it to Ezio. The greying grandmaster looked it over slowly, noting the peculiar shape and, indeed, the unique filaments. "I have a blacksmith who makes them; he's the only man on earth with the skill. This bomb will not detonate unless one of these many wires is disturbed. Very useful in narrow alleys."

"... Or under the seat cushion of someone's horse carriage," Ezio said, considering the possibilities.

"Oh ho!" Piri said, "Ezio Auditore! You are one devious animal. I should keep my distance, lest you corrupt my delicate sensibilities."

The Florentine snorted. "Oh, I think you will live."

"Of course! Don't blow your hands off, eh?" Piri added. "Come, I still need a break. Walk with me."

With Obelius in tow, the three toured the Kapalicharshi, Piri pointing out different shops he used either for his cartography or his bomb making, before exiting and turning south. They watched Janissaries training at the Hippodrome – Ezio noticed he had yet to find Tarik Barleti in any of his various observations of the Ottoman army, and he filed that fact away for the time being. Obelius snorted at the drills, saying he was much better at several of them, and Ezio and Piri both suggested he go down and challenge them. That put his teen sensibilities back in place, and the older men had a laugh over it. It was deep into the afternoon now, and Piri was much more relaxed, once again ready to tackle the challenge the _sultan_ had given him.

As they stood Hayri the thief appeared at their side. "If I might have a moment, gentlemen," he said politely. "I thought it might be worth mentioning a handy bit of information that came across my wanderings, thinking it might benefit you as much as me."

"Such a flowery proposal," Ezio said easily, "I feel I should like it already."

Hayri smirked. "First, Piri _Bey_ , I have found the source of the bandits stealing your from your caravans. I suppose a raid might befall them soon, assuming there are men better equipped for a taste a blood." Then he turned to Ezio. "Ezio _Bey_ , as a discrete member of the Sublime Porte, it might interest you to know that a certain dignitary, once linked to the Borgia and now held in high esteem by the _sultan_ is arriving in Istanbul this evening, and I have it on good authority that he is being escorted by Stewards of Byzantium. Perhaps you want to look into that."

" _Molto bene,_ " Ezio said before catching himself and switching back to Turkish. "You have indeed granted us beneficial news."

"Excellent. For payment I want brothers of yours to help in the raid of the bandits."

"Obelius," Ezio said brightly, "I have an assignment for you."

The teen balked. "A _raid_? On _bandits_?"

Ezio and Piri double-teamed him with disapproving looks. "Do you want a different assignment?" he asked in a low, dangerous voice.

Obelius' youth was once again curbed. "Ah, _hayir_ , I don't."

" _Bene_ , Hayri _Bey_ will be your contact, take your orders from him. _Every_ order, or I will hear of it."

" _Evet, Usta_."

The thief and the teen disappeared, and Piri rubbed his hands in anticipation. "I must confess I've never killed a man as a _suikastchi_ , this will be a new experience."

"And we have these funny new bombs to experiment with," Ezio added, irony full in his voice. "An experience indeed."

The two men set out, south to the ports by the mercenary headquarters. A quick stop and the vulgar Cenk pointed out the appropriate ship and lo, Ezio's eagle pointed out the man he was looking for. Piri spotted him as well, and in a turn of fortune, the man was getting ready to get into a carriage. "So much for my delicate sensibilities," Piri said with a menacing grin, watching Ezio's back as the two older men snuck around to the back of the carriage and Ezio bent underneath it. It took longer than he wanted to set up the filaments, Piri had to whisper some directions to him, but he finally managed to wedge it under an axel and pulled out from underneath. They moved into the crowds, disappearing down a few alleys and then up to the roofs to watch. The dignitary got into the carriage, and Ezio's sharp eagle eyes picked up the slight burst of smoke.

"Ha!" Piri said, "He will arrive at the palace dead and they will spend months trying to figure out how that happened.

Ezio had noticed something else. "There was a Janissary escort," he said, "Does that mean anything?"

"Not necessarily," Piri replied. "Janissaries are as corrupt as any other army; any man can be paid off to do what another wants – the better question is that of proportion. If many are corrupt, then that is because of the environment they live in, and you can bet the men in charge are like that. If few are corrupt, it is the ordinary failings of man that bleed through the armor and masks."

It was with that thought in mind that Ezio gathered the information he had and, on November 5, once more entered the palace. This was his third appearance, and certain members of the palace recognized his place and escorted him to the Third Courtyard, where Ezio and Suleiman had been formally introduced under such extreme circumstances. The courtyard was once again resplendent, and the young prince was in the shade of a tree, talking to several men before they left to do their business.

" _Buongiorno_ ," Ezio said politely, announcing his presence.

"Ah, _merhaba,_ I mean, _buongiorno_ ," the young prince said. "You have the curious ability of sneaking up when I least expect you." His eyes widened, however, as realization seemed to dawn on him. "Are you here to warn me of another assault?"

Ezio blinked. "No, should I?"

"My birthday is tomorrow, and my uncle is throwing a party."

Ezio shook his head. " _Buon compleanno_ , but I have heard nothing. Byzantine activity has not tended towards that direction."

Suleiman's eyes narrowed, ever shrewd. "But there _has_ been activity?"

"Which I hoped to share with you, _Shehzadem_ ," Ezio said.

Slowly the pair began walking around the illustrious courtyard, and Ezio reported on what he had learned so far of the Byzantine activities: their buying off heralds for propaganda, their attempts to seduce men of the Sublime Porte and eliminate them, their intentions to cause disruption in the Orthodox millet, and their hand in a poor Romani's death. Suleiman countered by asking about the Janissaries once again, and Ezio pursed his lips and rubbed his beard.

"You are too narrow-minded, _Shehzadem_ ," he said firmly but not unkindly. Suleiman gaped at the criticism at first, but slowly closed his mouth and gestured for the grandmaster to continue. "How many men work for the Sublime Porte?" Ezio asked. "Not just the viziers and the politicians but the secretaries and the couriers and the soldiers and the servants?"

Suleiman blinked, unable to give a number.

"Your steadings are vast, _Shehzadem_ , and there is no way one man can know everything about it. There is no way one man can _run_ it. By necessity, you must trust other men to run your government, but the inherent risk of that necessity is the corruptibility of the men you trust to run your government. Just last week, a dignitary was set to arrive in your court; he was once a member of the Borgia court," Ezio spat the name like a curse, "and had ties to the Stewards of Byzantium. I tell you this because I am beginning my assessment of your Janissaries, and there are several men in lower ranks who are being bought off or outright selling their knowledge or access in order to benefit themselves. Some are working for the Byzantines, some are just bettering their own station in life. Now, what would you do with this information?"

The boy opened his mouth, ready for a reply, but he paused, instead choosing to think. "Your words indicate that there is little to be done about this."

"There isn't. Corruption is a fact of life, one that we can spend our lives trying to cure to no avail. It _can,_ however, be controlled."

"How?"

"By environment," Ezio replied. "You lead by example, reward those who imbibe your view – not just tout them – and foster a world without corruption."

"But you just said-"

"I said it can't be cured, but it can be controlled. Men look to their leaders, _Shehzadem;_ I wish it were otherwise, but they don't want to be responsible for their own decisions. That puts great pressure on the man who _is_ in charge, and he must act accordingly. I once had an apprentice who did not understand the lessons I was trying to teach him, and it was not until my blade was to his neck did he finally understand the danger he was in. He is now a proud member of La Rosa della Virtù in Venezia, where he teaches his lessons to others because it was through my example that he managed to learn before I killed him. It is important, _Shehzadem_ , for you to know what you value as a leader of men."

Suleiman smiled softly, almost whimsically. "My uncle Ahmet will be _sultan_ , not my father. I have no hope of becoming a leader. My hope is to be a scholar."

"That is immaterial," Ezio said. "You are a leader by your very blood – was it not you who took the investigation out of Tarik Barleti's hands? That was the decision of a leader; and even if you never ascend the throne, you would be a leader among scholars, and they in turn will look to your example."

"This is the second time you have come here to give me advice," Suleiman said after a pause. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"We shared a boat ride to Constantinopoli," Ezio said, "Is that not enough reason?"

"Not for you, I suspect."

Ezio nodded. "Ever perceptive, _Shehzade_ Suleiman. There is a man in this city whose opinion I greatly value, and he loves this city with great passion. His only hope in life is to see that this city stays safe from _all_ possible offenders – including the people who rule it. Out of respect for that man, I humbly wish that someone in this palace understand the stakes that are involved in a loving endeavor such as that, and you are a likely candidate."

"You... are unlike anyone I've ever met," Suleiman said. He let the moment hang in the air, before turning and looking away. "Were that my father was more like you," he murmured.

There was a pain there, raw and quietly suffered, and Ezio let the prince have a private moment.

"I hope that you think over the machinations of your empire _, Shehzadem_ , and use your bright mind to learn how to better it. For now, I must return to my work."

Suleiman was brought out of his thoughts and nodded his head, "Yes, I understand. Thank you for your continued work."

* * *

It was a few days later when Ezio was visiting a small den near a busy market and thinking of perhaps visiting Sofia later that week. He hadn't visited the bookseller in over a week and he was starting to miss her.

" _Usta_ , do you have a moment?" Obelius asked quietly, his face once more somber and serious. "I have a request."

Ezio gave an encouraging smile and turned away from the scrolls of reports he'd been reading. "I am eager to hear it."

Obelius nodded. "Today, a local printer received a death threat. I feel we must take it seriously."

Ezio frowned. "How do you know it is serious?"

"This man has never received such a threat before, and it was right after he printed pamphlets that were highly critical of Byzantine rule and how we are much better off as a millet of the Ottomans."

"He is Greek then?"

"Yes." Obelius scowled deeply, looking down. "I believe the Templars are trying to silence him. I would like to draw his enemies out into the open by pretending to escort him to a new location."

"With just yourself?"

" _Hayir, Usta_ ," Obelius replied. "With you."

Ezio gave a soft chuckle. "You need work on planning," he said, before pulling out slate and chalk to go over a far more detailed plan.

"The largest problem is that we don't know how many will ambush us," Ezio explained. "Even with me hidden on the roofs with a crossbow, it won't take long to set an ambush that even with my help, would hurt or kill the printer. We must be better prepared than that."

Obelius shrugged. "Then we bring more Assassins."

It was work not to roll his eyes.

"And expose more of our Order to danger? To expose our secrecy by brawling in the streets?"

The teenager frowned, clearly understanding the criticism, but unable to think of an alternative.

Ezio let out a small sigh. "Obelius, do you know why Yusuf has been so very busy lately?"

"Meetings."

"With whom?"

All at once understanding dawned. "The other guilds. We need mercenaries."

"Much better," Ezio nodded. "Can you get a message to Cenk to have two or three available? Will the printer be safe until we get there?"

" _Evet_ ," Obelius nodded, already heading to the front. "We will be leaving tonight. I have another urchin spreading word of this in the streets."

Cenk himself arrived with his son, and Ezio had Obelius fill them in on the plan.

Cenk gave a bark of laughter. "This will be easy," he said, turning to his son. "And a good way for you to get back into fighting."

" _Father!_ "

Ezio chuckled.

So, as _maghreeb_ prayers could be heard throughout the city, the four of them went to the printer's home. Cenk and his son stayed back with Ezio. The two mercenaries would shadow Obelius and the printer, ready to jump in if there was a problem, and Ezio swiftly climbed to the roofs, his crossbow handy. Cenk's son expressed some heavy criticism that Ezio would be able to fire his crossbow at night.

Ezio didn't even bother to respond. He had his eagle and he didn't need to explain it.

Obelius stepped out with the printer, and Ezio had to admit, the set up was perfect. Obelius was almost blatant in his guard duty, turning his head every which way to keep an eye on everything, his hand never leaving his sword, and his steps slow and cautious. Indeed, his hood was pushed back enough to show that he still had the pot-marked face of a teenager. The printer himself, younger than Ezio expected, in his third decade, looked nervous, as was expected when being bait for someone who wanted you dead.

Easy bait indeed.

Cenk and his son, while heavily armed, were both well behind the printer, both arguing over a map in a slightly dramatic fashion that lacked the finesse Ezio would have preferred, but the battle axe and long sword were enough for people to not question too deeply.

It wasn't until an hour later, as Obelius lead a circular route, that the first ambush came. The young Assassin shoved the printer behind him, his blade out, but Ezio above let his crossbow bolt fly, felling the first of the trio, stopping the others in their tracks. Obelius easily took care of the remaining, his skill incredible for his age. Ezio wondered briefly how long Obelius had been training and when he'd been recruited.

Two more ambushes later, and Obelius was starting to show signs of tiring, and Cenk and his son were no longer subtle. They stalked with the young Assassin, forming a triangle of protection around the printer, who was getting more and more jumpy as the night went on. _Isha_ prayers had long since finished as the citizens of Istanbul finally went to bed.

They at last turned to a tiny corner where three streets converged. Standing solidly in the middle of the corner stood a massive man, bald with a beard as thick as a forest, his muscles bulged. His shirt was so ill-fitted it lay open, exposing the hard crisp lines of his build to further intimidate.

"Stand down, _Suikastchi_ ," the mountain grunted in Greek-accented Turkish. "There is a contract on this man's head!"

The printer was positively hysterical, the long evening having torn the last of his nerves to shreds. "I will not be silenced!" he screamed, turning and bolting. "I will not!"

 _Merda_!

"Cenk!" Ezio called, leaping along the roofs to follow the printer. Both mercenaries followed and Ezio, with a heavy heart, left young Obelius to face the massive fighter and his heavy, crude axe alone.

The Greek printer fled without reason or thought of his direction, and Ezio finally dropped down to a fountain and then to the street to catch up as he ran himself into a graveyard.

"Do not kill me, _efendim_!" the printer begged, falling to his knees, tears starting to stream down his face. "Please! Allah help me!"

"I am trying to _save_ you!" Ezio growled, not having _any_ patience with young, promising Obelius fighting that brute alone. Cenk hurried up with his son and with the two mercenaries by his side, Ezio took a deep breath to try and compose himself so that he could help the _printer_ compose himself.

"There he is!"

Ezio, Cenk, Cenk's son, and the printer all swore very colorfully.

A squad of Byzantines poured into the graveyard and Ezio fought the left flank while Cenk covered the right and his son took the middle. The three of them formed an impenetrable wall that the Byzantines could not break, and soon the whole squad lay dead at their feet.

Ezio lightly stepped out and away. "Get the printer to the den!" he called to Cenk. "My _Assassino_ needs help."

He didn't dare guess how long he'd been away. He didn't dare think how long Obelius had been alone. Ezio just _ran_.

He came to the corner of the three streets, panting and sweating despite the chill night air. Obelius was huddled against a cart, leaning forward and breathing heavily.

_Thank God._

"What happened," Ezio asked softly, kneeling down. "Who was that fighter?"

"Quite an animal, no?" Obelius asked softly through pained breaths. "I have never seen the Templars attack with such brute strength."

"When they cannot buy," Ezio replied, "they brutalize."

"Today I bested him, but not by much."

"You'll need to be on your guard. He will be back."

" _...evet..._ "

"Where are you hurt?"

Obelius took a moment to simply breath, then curled further on himself. "I was able to slash his arm," he said. "He won't forget that."

"But what did he do to _you_?"

Obelius grimaced. "His axe is sharp," he said, then attempted to straighten.

" _Merda!_ " Ezio started ripping off parts of his cloths to put pressure on the long gash across the teenager's stomach. While not deep enough to cut organs, it would require stitches and at least a month of rest. But Ezio had to _get_ him to a doctor first. And that would not be easy as Obelius could barely straighten himself; the teenager was taller than Ezio and thickly built. He'd need a cart or something, Obelius was simply too big for Ezio to carry. "Come on," Ezio growled, dragging him to the street. "We're going to get you to a doctor even if I have to _drag_ you there."

"...a moment... _Usta_ ," Obelius grunted, trying to straighten himself. The effort worked briefly, and Ezio was able to get an arm around his shoulder as he hefted the larger man against him to start down the dark empty street. But after they turned the corner, Obelius let out a loud grunt and slid off Ezio's shoulder and collapsed to the ground.

"Sorry, _Usta_..."

" _Merda!_ " Ezio cursed, louder than he intended.

He levered up Obelius again, but they barely got further down the street before toppling again.

A shadow slipped out of an alley, cautiously. "Ezio _Bey_?"

Ezio whipped around, his hidden blades out as he stood defensively in front of his fallen Assassin.

"I _told_ you," a voice growled. "That's the _Suikastchi_ leader."

"Who are you?" Ezio narrowed his eyes, looking with his eagle, and did not see the red aura of an enemy. He relaxed. Marginally.

"We work for Hayri," the thief said, slipping further into the street.

Ezio paused, assessing and thinking. "I need help. My _Suikastchi_ is injured and is too big for me to move."

" _..._ sorry, _Usta_..." Obelius murmured, grunting in his own frustration.

" _Bok_!" the thief cursed, stepping forward. "Isn't that the _Suikastchi_ that helped us rob those brigands?"

"Gevheri?" Obelius looked up. " _Lanet!_ Why did it have to be _you_?"

The thief laughed. "Still an arrogant brat. Do you still think thieves are beneath you?"

"Currently _I_ am beneath _you_ ," Obelius growled around a sharp grimace.

Another thief peeled off from the shadows. "Don't worry, brat. We've got you."

The three of them were able to support Obelius and bring him to the den, where Mazhar was quickly summoned as the den hadn't made a connection with a local doctor yet. The printer was settled in as well, after some heavy usage of wine to settle nerves and pass out asleep. Cenk was still there with his son, having been invited to stay the night.

Ezio let out a heavy sigh as he sat down with the head of the mercenaries.

Cenk frowned. "You asked for my help, _efendim_ ," he said softly. "It seems I was not enough."

The Florentine shook his head. "There was nothing you could do," he replied. "The printer was our priority and he is safe. You have my thanks for that."

Cenk shook his head. "I have seen you with the _Suikastchi_. I heard from those you send to be trained. You care for your _Suikastchi_ like they are your children. You have saved my son, I am shamed I have done less for you."

"Do not think on it," Ezio shook his head. "I'd rather know who that mountainous brute was."

"That, at least, I can do," Cenk said solemnly. "I know that man. That was Georgios Kostas, a Greek thug that learned to fight in Thrace. He's been in the mountains for years. I don't know what brought him down to our city."

"Templars," Ezio growled. "They would approve of a bully like him."

"We will hunt him, Ezio _Bey_ ," Cenk bowed his head. "That _pich_ will not escape us."

Ezio's answering grin was borderline feral. " _Bene_."

Ezio stayed in Obelius's den while the young Assassin recovered, helping with the day to day tasks and instructions that took place in the back rooms while the apprentices and journeymen handled the actual front end of the den. Obelius didn't care for any of it in the slightest, neither the thirty-six stitches, the required bed rest, nor the inability to keep absolutely up to date on everything that was going on. Ezio didn't care if he hated it as long as he recovered. Two days later Cenk sent his son to give a report that it seemed the _bastardo_ Georgios was in hiding as there had been no sightings of him.

Good. That meant Obelius had wounded him enough that he needed to lay low and rest as well.

Ezio was out in the district the following week, checking on contacts that Obelius had been cultivating as informants and just letting the flow of the city pull at him. He was caught off guard, however, when he saw one of Obelius's apprentices come pelting down the street as if the demons of hell were right on his heels. Ezio immediately rushed over, nearly getting bowled over by the apprentice before the light of recognition finally dawned.

" _Usta_!" the apprentice, barely fourteen hissed. "Help! Sotiris is in trouble!"

Ezio frowned heavily. "Show me."

A ladder brought both to the roofs and the apprentice swiftly led the way, knowing the location despite the new angle on the roofs, which Ezio approved of. Along the way, the apprentice explained. In the Constantine district, where the Byzantines had their strongest presence, Sotiris had found a lone Byzantine courier. He had, naturally fought the courier to find out what news he was bringing and managed to kill him. But no sooner had Sotiris collected the message and started binding wounds when a Byzantine patrol came down the street. Sotiris had barely had time to hide in a nearby haystack.

"We must save him or his daughter will see to it that there'll be two corpses that need burying instead," the apprentice bemoaned.

Sotiris, Ezio recalled, was perhaps one of the oldest Assassins still alive after the Little Judgment. Though Greek, his father had converted to Islam after the Ottomans took over. Sotiris's wife, a fellow Assassin, had died almost a decade ago, and Sotiris had been raising their daughter alone ever since.

Kasim was still grief-stricken over his murdering an innocent clergyman, Meryem had finally found peace after taking out the Templar thespian, and Obelius was injured already, Ezio would _not_ let another Assassin go through such hardship.

Within moments, Ezio and the apprentice were flat on their stomachs looking down to a small alley at the base of a massive set of stairs. Sure enough, the Byzantine courier was dead, his blood splattered about the cobblestones. As the apprentice had said, there was a haystack nearby, and a small patrol of Byzantines in full armor under the darkening sky examining the body.

" _Bok_! They'll find him!" the apprentice whispered.

Ezio nudged him hard. "Sotiris will be fine," he murmured firmly. Distraction, distraction. "What do you have for weapons at the moment?"

"Er, my blades, of course," the apprentice said. "Some throwing knives, a pair of cherry bombs..."

"Cherry bombs?"

" _Evet_ ," the apprentice pulled out one. "They make a loud noise, almost like a gunshot. Guards never fail to go investigate."

"Perfect," Ezio smiled. "How is your aim?"

"In light like _this_? Terrible."

Ezio rolled his eyes under his hood. "Then give one to me."

The guards had finished their examination and were starting to discuss something, so Ezio would have to be swift. He stood, knowing the dark of the falling night would help him stay hidden, and threw the bomb. It landed in a merchant stand and the explosion did indeed sound like a gunshot. The Byzantines quickly went to investigate and start digging in the collapsed shelves and debris.

Sotiris took his opportunity, silently exiting the haystack and taking off up the stairs, cradling an arm to his side. He ducked behind a fountain, looking around and Ezio and the apprentice did as well.

" _Usta_ , more guards."

Ezio had already spotted them. Another set of heavy stone steps lead up to a street carved from the hill, with a stone guardrail overlooking the fountain Sotiris was hiding behind. An Ottoman patrol was walking down the street, asking anyone up that late why they were out and waving them on. At the head of the stairs, hidden in the darkness and talking amongst themselves were a small group of Byzantines, shivering in the chill air.

"Your cherry bomb," Ezio ordered.

"Of course, _Usta_ ," the apprentice handed it over, a look of bewilderment in his eyes. Ezio stood again, and took his time aiming. He would need to time this right. The Ottomans were just starting to look over the guardrail when Ezio threw the explosive. As expected, the Ottomans hustled to investigate, as did the Byzantines. The ensuing conflict was enough for Sotiris to dash up the steps and down a dark alleyway.

"Come, let us see to that injury," Ezio stood, feeling sad and weary. "Go and fetch a doctor."

" _Evet, Usta_."

Ezio wove around the roofs, easily finding Sotiris and dropping down.

"Are you alright?"

Sotiris frowned savagely, but nodded. "I feel a fool for getting injured. The courier was faster than expected, _Usta_."

"You cradle your arm."

Sotiris grimaced. "A gash, and nothing more. Maybe a few stitches, but nothing like poor little Obelius."

"Let's get you to safety."

As Sotiris had predicted, the injury was not severe and did not require stitches as the blood loss and at first indicated. Sotiris grunted at the doctor and sent an apprentice to fetch his daughter. The girl, Ezio noted, was the same age as the apprentice and appropriately covered as per Islamic tradition. Upon seeing her father being treated, tears welled in her eyes as she rushed forward to kiss his hand. Sotiris grasped her hand firmly before sweeping her into a tight, loving embrace and the two reassured each other that they were both fine. Their family still existed.

Something about seeing that tugged at Ezio, and he silently left the den with his heart feeling heavy as he once again missed Claudia and Federica. The only family he had left.

He was tempted to see Sofia, to visit and just converse, but he was planning to visit her the following week to see how progress was coming on that map. Still, Ezio debated with himself heavily the next day before deciding that... no. He would wait.

So instead, Ezio went to the Kapalicharshi after noon prayers to sit down with Piri and see how his "delicate sensibilities" were handling his first kill as an Assassin instead of a member of the navy.

The old navy man smiled and eagerly pushed aside his maps.

"Did you know that early Christians used to place East at the top of their maps?" he chuckled. "They assumed heaven lay in that direction, beyond Cathay, because that is where the sun appeared every morning. What a convenient simplicity, no?"

"It wouldn't surprise me," Ezio replied, smiling.

"Ha! With heaven on earth, glass spheres in the sky, and the earth at the center of the universe. _Ha_! What a load of horse piss."

"The more we know," still smiling, Ezio poured them a pair of glasses of wine, "the smaller our own world seems."

"More vast, you mean. Unexplored lands and who knows what more beyond it," Piri replied.

Ezio remembered the strange moving painting of Minerva, the hovering globes and the small sphere that was the blue and green jewel of the earth. He thought of Copernicus who studied the sky to see the vastness that existed outside of everything mankind had ever known. "Or what lands there are beyond this world."

"Now _that_ truly _is_ a load of horse piss," Piri laughed. Taking a larger sip of wine, Piri resettled in his chair, staring off into space. "I have some sticky resin bags that I use for bombs, sometimes," he said softly. "My uncle Kemal had a wild fondness for them. During Bayezid's conflict with Venezia, he was captain in the Ottoman navy. He liked resin bombs because they stuck to almost any surface. The hulls of large ships for instance."

Ezio had lost many friends in that conflict, and so had Piri. It was why the old navy man was an Assassin. He hated the artificial boundaries that leaders build between people. The sad irony was that Assassins fought to end the fighting. They had spoken of it before, and Ezio settled back into his own seat.

"My uncle Kemal taught me everything I know of bombs, and he amazed me as he just kept learning."

Ezio blinked. "Past tense?"

" _Evet_ ," he said softly. "I just learned this morning that Kemal _Reis_ , pride of the Ottoman navy, has passed away."

"...It seems the more I live," Ezio said sadly, looking into his glass, "the more I lose people."

"That, _arkadashim_ , is a feeling I know all too well."

So they spent the afternoon reminiscing of the Ottoman-Venetian war, remembering old friends, family, and how things were when the two of them were young.

Dinner time arrived, and Piri at last let the conversation wind to a close. "For ten months I have been working on a new map for Bayezid. But he is old, and I am a perfectionist..." he said, standing. "Perhaps the next Sultan will appreciate my efforts."

Ezio wondered who that Sultan would be. Ahmet, already chosen, or Selim, who fought to be the next ruler of the empire?

"Whoever it is," Ezio said, "may they recognize your brilliance."

"Still the Lothario charmer," Piri chuckled.

As the week progressed, Ezio returned to the derelict mosque, Obelius at least well enough to stand and start moving about the den, and kicking Ezio out with the distinctive teenage pout he tried so hard to suppress. Yusuf met him and the two sat down to trade information.

While Ezio had been getting involved in helping Obelius and his den, Yusuf had kept an eye on the Janissaries and was finding a small disturbing trend of Byzantines meeting them in darkened alleys. It was only a handful of such meetings that Yusuf had discovered, not enough of a scale to think anything higher up was orchestrating it, but it was troubling nonetheless.

"Then why don't we make some trouble," Ezio said with a smile. "Let the Janissaries and Byzantines know that meeting together might pose a health risk."

Yusuf gave his satisfied little giggle. "I was going to suggest something like that. How does tomorrow strike you?"

"Perfect."

The following morning Yusuf and Ezio headed out to the Roman forum where the Janissaries came to train.

"There," Yusuf whispered. "The two just putting on their masks. They are to meet with a small Byzantine patrol later today."

"Then let's keep an eye on them."

The two they were tracking spent most of the morning training, but after their noontime prayers, Yusuf and Ezio followed along the rooftops as the Janissary pair went deep into the southern parts of the city. Eventually they came to the impoverished Constantine section, where they met a single Byzantine and continued down the alleys.

The Byzantine lead them to a small squad of Byzantines, where at last, everyone stopped.

Yusuf smiled. "I have just the bomb for this, _Usta_ da Firenze." Yusuf pulled out a resin pouch and tossed it down. The explosive landed on one of the Byzantines and as they went under a broken overhang, Ezio and Yusuf listened.

_Bang!_

Yusuf giggled again. "Lesson learned, I believe."

"Indeed."

* * *

It was late the following week on a cold rainy day when Ezio finally dropped in on Sofia. Given how dangerous his life was and that Templars would be just as interested in the map as he was, he always tried to be unpredictable on when he arrived. This particular day, he arrived midmorning, to find her bustling about her shop. Ezio smiled when he saw her, and Fusun merely nodded before heading off to a different part of the square to perform while he was busy. How she would get any money in the rain was a mystery to Ezio but he let her be.

Sofia was half up a ladder, putting a stack of books away on a shelf, pausing with each one to briefly leaf through it with a smile before placing it. The last was a particularly heavy tome, and as she reached out to put it on the shelf, she started to overbalance.

"Oh!"

But Ezio was under her, catching her delicately and easing her down.

Sofia gave a brilliant little laugh. "My savior!" she said in a dramatic fashion. "Whatever shall I do without my hero!"

"Pull yourself back up and handle it like the strong woman you are," he replied, taking the heavy book from her and climbing to replace it himself.

"My, how chivalrous _and_ liberal!"

"Hello, Sofia," Ezio smiled.

"Hello to you as well," she said, her mouth once more quirked so as to suggest a smile. "I have some good news for you."

"Oh?" He reached back and pushed back his hood and ran his hands through his hair, shaking out some of the cold rain.

Sofia paused, her quirked lips in an appreciative smile, before she shook herself and went to her desk in the back room and shifted through various papers. "Yes, the first book we need to get to those ancient books belongs to an old book lender friend of mine. Or at least an ancient copy does. He agreed to send it to me for my research. The ship is to arrive tomorrow. Then we can start decoding those numbers and seeing where these books are." Her smile was wide, bright and inviting.

Ezio smiled as well. "That sounds promising indeed. I can come by the day after tomorrow and we can look at the results."

"I was wondering," Sofia said more slowly, looking him up and down. "Customs at the ports are always a while. And I'd like to get started right away. Would you mind joining me? Once we get the book we can start reading on our way back here. Plus I have another parcel I'm expecting to arrive."

"When does the ship arrive?"

"Noon."

"I'll be there," he promised with a small bow and a quirked smile of his own. "Now, do you have the books I ordered?"

The following day was, blissfully, not raining, but there was heavy cloud cover when Ezio arrived at the ports at the southernmost tip of the city. As the day wore on, it finally started to get warm in the sun and Ezio wandered from dock to dock, wondering which one had the ship Sofia was waiting for. He arrived at a dock where a small crowd was grumbling and he spotted Sofia's red hair within the group. Ezio made his way forward when he heard a voice he didn't think he'd ever hear again.

" _Mia cara!_ " that voice said, full of insincere charm. "The strings of fate have drawn us together. Two _italiani_ lost and alone in the Orient." Yes, those were the grand gestures, and the same purple crest and shirt. The voice dropped as he stepped in to Sofia's personal space. "Do you not _feel_ the _magnetism_?"

Sofia didn't even spare him a glance and stepped clearly away from him, twisting. "I feel many things, _messere_ ," she said stiffly. "Nausea, above all."

Ezio smiled. She did know how to handle herself.

He slipped easily through the crowd, appearing behind Sofia's annoyance. "Is this man bothering you, Sofia?" he asked.

And, with the same arrogance and haughtiness Ezio remembered so well, the annoyance turned. "Excuse me, _messere_ , but the lady and I are-"

Ezio gave a feral grin from under his hood. He rather enjoyed the eyes widening, the jaw slackening, the posture stiffening. There was a moment of stillness as the terror just _oozed_ off the man.

"Ah!" he screamed. " _Il diavolo_ himself!" his body finally moved, stepping back and away. "Stay back!"

"Duccio," Ezio greeted and swept into a polite bow. "A pleasure."

Duccio, an annoyance from Ezio's teenage years, an insult in Roma, and now a frightened coward in Istanbul. The world kept on moving.

"Run!" Duccio screamed, turning and taking off. " _Buona donna_ , run for your life!"

Sofia, Ezio, and the entire crowd watched the hasty retreat with quite a few chuckles.

With a questioning raise of her eyebrow, Sofia turned with an amused quirk of her lips. "Who was that?" she asked.

"A dog," Ezio replied, watching Duccio's retreat. "He was engaged to my sister many years ago."

Sofia seemed to pick up on the history, her eyes alight with interest. When Ezio didn't continue, she asked, "And what happened?"

"His _cazzo_ was engaged to six others," he replied bluntly, before he realized just how rude his language was. "Forgive me _,_ " he said, looking to her again. "We are here for parcels, not the language of sailors."

Sofia shrugged. "I have sailed between here and Venezia. I've heard far worse language. To say nothing of the cousin of mine who can't hold his liquor."

Ezio chuckled.

"I'm afraid that this might not be as quick as I had thought," Sofia said, turning to look at the ship. "It will be a few hours before we they start unloading."

"Oh?"

"The customs man says that the captain's papers are not in order. So we wait," she sighed. "Such a bother. We may be waiting all day."

"I know a few ways to bend the rules," Ezio said, scanning the ship and the Ottomans who were arguing with the captain.

"Do you now?" Sofia asked with a particular lilt in her voice.

" _Si_ , but I don't think now is the time. Waiting is not so bad, when conversation can be so engaging."

Sofia's delightful quirk of a smile blossomed. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

The both laughed and started to talk. At first, it was inconsequential things, Ezio very careful of what he said in public as he always was, particularly in such a crowd. After an hour, Ezio had guided them to a nearby bench, and, with his back to the wall, Ezio kept a subtle eye on the crowds. They talked of families, but with December and the eventual new year approaching, Ezio didn't want to talk about families. He elegantly pivoted from every question, redirecting it back to Sofia, whom he enjoyed learning more and more about.

After another such avoidance, Sofia let out a soft sigh. "Ezio," she said fondly, her lips again quirked, but not in amusement, but with a touch of annoyance. "You wear your mysteries like a second skin."

Ezio paused, leaning forward to set his elbows on his knees. He was evading because he did not like to talk of his family, and this time of year was always the worst. Sofia was his friend, and she didn't deserve that. He respected her far too much. And he remembered lessons learned long ago, that talking helped.

Ezio sighed, rubbing his forehead. " _Mi dispiace_ , Sofia," he said softly. "Family... is not the easiest thing to speak of for me."

She arched a brow. "But you mentioned your sister."

"Because she is the only family I have left."

A heavy silence fell over them in the hustle and bustle of the crowd. "Oh."

"When I was seventeen, I watched my father and my two brothers hung for false accusations of treason. My mother lost her mind after that. It came back for a while, but as she died, she didn't remember anything anymore. That was a few years ago."

Sofia slipped an arm around his and leaned into him. "I am sorry. I can see why you keep evading."

Ezio shook his head. "It has been a very long time. I have held it for decades now. I am used to the burden. But I do not share easily. And you deserve better than that."

"You don't have to," Sofia said softly.

Ezio turned and gave a small, sad smile. "I want to. I do not speak of my family enough. It's time I did."

Ezio was very direct. While he was charming and could turn a phrase, he was not a good story teller. After all, how can mere words relate the feeling of a moment in time? The sight of his family swinging from the gallows, his mother unresponsive, his sister grittily trying to keep it together. Uncle Mario trying to teach them enough to survive. Only to die in the sacking of Monteriggioni. And his mother's long, lingering decline.

He was completely honest, though he didn't mention the Assassins or his long quest for vengeance. He kept to stories of each family member. Petruccio often sick in bed, Federico's ability to always find a bed to warm, Maria's bakery, Mario's lessons in defense, Claudia and her husband Ulderico, and their daughter Federica.

Sofia asked questions, offered her own stories, so he wasn't the only one talking. It was perhaps the first time he had truly opened himself to her, instead of hiding behind Florentine irony and charming flirting. As always, when he spoke of his family, it was bittersweet. His love for them would never die, and continued with his niece, but even after almost a quarter century, the steady pain of their loss was still there.

Sofia seemed to look at him with new eyes, but Ezio was certain that was his imagination. She leaned into his side, resting her head on his shoulder as an act of comfort, the same way Claudia often did when they were children.

Two hours later, conversation had finally turned back to lighter, safer topics, but Ezio tried not to be so evasive.

At last, an Ottoman came forward. " _Madamigella_ Sofia Sartor," he said, his Turkish accent thick, " _libraia. Constantinopoli_."

"Ah, yes, thank you!" Sofia replied in Turkish. The Ottoman nodded and they started the usual paperwork always required.

Two packages were given to her, one a long wooden tube with a large crack down the middle, which Sofia frowned at heavily, and a box. Still, Sofia was polite and gracious with the customs man and the two went about their way.

"Look at the damage," she growled as they headed back to her bookshop. "Did they use this to fight off pirates?"

Ezio smiled. "We will inspect the damage at your shop. The clouds are thickening and I don't think we want to expose your parcels to rain."

"True."

At the shop Ezio lit candles against the dim light as Sofia poked the fire back to life. With light once more, Sofia went first to the tube, pulling out the delicate paper from inside and carefully laying it out on her desk. "So far so good," she said. "Beautiful, no?" she asked, turning her bright smile to Ezio. "This is a print of a map by Martin Waldseemuller. See here?" gesturing to the map. "The new lands described by _messer_ Amerigo Vespucci."

Cristina's cousin and unknowing ally of the Assassins. It seemed Ezio's past would keep being brought up. So he ignored the history, having recounted enough for the day, and instead offered Florentine irony. "Poor Christoffa Corombo," he said. "History has a strange way of unfolding."

"What do you make of this body of water here?" Sofia said, gesturing to the map.

"A new ocean, perhaps," Ezio replied. "Most scholars I know claim the size of the globe has been underestimated."

"The Greeks would claim they already measured it, centuries ago," Sofia countered with a bright smile and her curiosity sparkling in her eyes. "Incredible. The more we learn about the world, the less we seem to know."

The two of them poured over the map, marveling at how suddenly expansive the world now seemed to be compared to their tiny corner of the Mediterranean. Ezio reveled in just being curious, without the worries of the Assassins intruding, even for this short a time.

"Well," Sofia said finally, still bright and smiling. "I believe we should get to the _other_ package I received. But first, it's getting late. I'll make us some dinner."

"You don't have to," Ezio replied. "That's far too much trouble."

She slapped his arm. "Don't you go expecting a miracle from me," she laughed lightly. "I don't have the time for that. But I have some left overs that I can warm up so that we don't starve."

" _Come la mia signora desidera_ ," Ezio gave a flourishing bow. "As my lady wishes."

Sofia laughed.

Dinner, Sofia insisted, was not to be interrupted with puzzles or mysteries, and instead, the continued discussing Vespucci's map and what the new world across the ocean might mean. Ezio wondered, briefly, if Piri would be interested in the map, or if he already had a copy.

After the meal, they opened the box and pulled out the ancient tome, covered in thick layers of wax paper to prevent any damage from the sailing.

"I must admit," Sofia said softly as she carefully turned each page, "my head is swimming with the prospect of seeing _these_ books. This is knowledge the world lost, and _must_ have again." Already, she was jotting things down on scrap paper, quill flying across the page. "Perhaps I could print a few copies to distribute myself," she said, thinking aloud. "A small run of fifty or so, that should be enough..."

Ezio couldn't quite hold back the soft chuckle and the admiring smile.

Sofia blinked, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. "Why are you laughing?" she asked with a distinct, if light, edge to her voice.

"Forgive me," Ezio replied. "It is a joy to see someone with a passion so personal and noble." He sat back and just admired her. "It is... inspiring."

To his delight, she glanced aside, blushing. "Goodness," she replied. "Where is this coming from?"

There was too much feeling to truly answer that question. But he simply smiled. "I think we've found the right page."

Ezio fetched an old city map on loan from the university, and the two of them started to look from the numbers listed on the edge of the map from the den beneath them, the words listed on the page the numbers referenced, and the map of the city.

"Ayasofya," Ezio murmured. There was a certain irony to that, and he couldn't hold back the smile. " _Grazie_ , Sofia," he said softly. "I will return with the book."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More time killing here. We have now officially met all of our den leaders; from romani to greek teens to single fathers to crossdresser we have quite the ensemble. One of the things we didn't really do was discuss age in Brotherhood, we just sort of named everyone and gave them personalities and let them play; they also weren't very attached to Rome itself. Here we corrected those mistakes as best we could; since the order has been in Constantinople much longer we could afford to stratify the ages and give them more diverse occupations and lives. Such is the assassin's reach.
> 
> We also get another scene with Suleiman. One of the game's greatest problems with its kitchen sink plot is that the Ottoman family isn't given nearly enough game time. Even excluding character design, mocap, and expressions, the voices given to the royals is amazing - and yes, we're biased to Malik, but Ahmet is wonderful too, and Selim barely even show, and Beyazid never appears. So much more could have been done with them.
> 
> And also, now, we see a major change in a Sofia memory. Instead of suffering from game mechanics and making Sofia unable to wait for a trade ship to hand over her parcels and just dump her problems on Ezio and then disappear so as not to bother him, we instead have the two of them talking while they wait, and Ezio breaking some of his mysteries in front of her, talking about his family and - whether he knows it or not - making her even more interested in him. Relevant.
> 
> Muslim Lesson: There are five pillars in Islam, and one that most people can pick out immediately is praying five times a day. Initially they were suppose to pray 50 times a day, but the Prophet (peace be upon him) was able to reduce it to five times. The prayers are said at: Dawn (Fajr), Noon (Dzhur), Afternoon (Asr, think before dusk), Evening (Magrheeb, dusk), and Night (Isha). Each prayer is a different length of verses, or rakkats, and generally take somewhere between four to ten minutes. After the bilal calls the athan, Muslims purify themselves by washing certain body parts in a certain order, decide on an imam, and face towards Mecca – or specifically the Ka'abah in Mecca – and the imam will lead them in prayer. There is also what's loosely called Friday prayers, meaning men gather specifically for Noon (Dzhur) prayer; they have to number at least 40, and so this is generally the only prayer that's required to be in a mosque to get the appropriate numbers. Afterwords, some may decide to pray to ask specific things the way Christians can sometimes pray for specific things in church before mass.
> 
> And as an aside, if you ever listen to prayers on youtube, they are BEAUTIFUL. Just sayin'.
> 
> Next chapter: Ayasofia. Lots and lots of Ayasofia :P


	9. Psalms and Rakaats

Hagia Sophia, or Ayasofya in Turkish, was constructed from 532 to 537 on order of Byzantine emperor Justinian and was, technically, the third basilica built on the site. Using materials from as far as Egypt and close as the Greek Thessaly, some ten thousand people worked on constructing the building, and it was considered the pinnacle of Byzantine architecture, changing the way architecture was even done – supposedly. It was the imperial orthodox church, and the symbol of Eastern Orthodox Christianity, for almost one thousand years. The church was ransacked during the Fourth Crusade – as was the rest of the city, and was converted to Roman Catholicism for a short period of time before reverting back. Ezio blinked as he realized belatedly that Altaïr had been to Constantinopoli once, to try and establish an Assassin presence, right as the Fourth Crusade started. Had he been in the church during the sacking of the city? Would there be a tomb there, as was scattered throughout Italia, as was demonstrated in the Yebertan Cistern? The thought sent a thrill through the greying grandmaster, and he was suddenly impatient to ascertain where he was supposed to look.

The church was in disrepair by the time the Ottomans came, and it became a refuge as the city was taken. Once the city fell, the _sultan_ , Mehmet II allowed his troops only three days of pillaging – and of course much of it was focused around the rumored treasures and relics of the massive church. When the refugees were found, they were either killed, raped, or sold into slavery. Azize had spat at the history before explaining in a pained voice that after all of that debauchery had happened, the _sultan,_ impressed with the structure, insisted it be turned into a mosque; and an _ulama_ , an Islamic religious scholar, then recited the _Shahada_ , the first Pillar of Islam and the equivalent of the First Commandment of Moses in a grand symbolic gesture of the change.

Ayasofya stood atop a grand hill with an impressive series to steps leading up to it, giving the former church a sense of scale and weight. Trees lined the steps in steppes. Atop the steps was a courtyard dotted with trees and bushes and benches and flowerbeds, flanked on either side by buildings with arched pavilions similar to Topkapi. The mosque itself rose betwixt the two, four massive columns rising up, windows interspersed at three different levels. But the dominating feature of Ayasofya was the roof. Made of lead and once so heavy it collapsed on itself, its pinnacle was a dome, circular in shape and lifted from its different levels of arches.

One of the two minarets had collapsed in the earthquake two years ago, and Ezio studied the mosque from atop the only standing minaret. The climb had taken over an hour – during another rainstorm no less – it was well into the evening; he had watched the commute to dusk prayers – _Maghreeb_ , right? - and bore witness to a glorious sunset as he studied the building's dome, its blue roofs and levels, and its expansive steps up to the structure. The golden sky cast everything in similar tones, and shadows stretched black everywhere. This high up, Ezio could barely see the men and women milling about and going in and out of the building, he could see the endless roofs of the city – a veritable playground to an Assassin – and he could see Galata and Topkapi, and Kapalicharshi and other major monuments. Now that he was more familiar with the city, he recognized certain spires and towers, it was starting to hold a familiarity to it. It would never reach the comfort of his home in Italia, but he felt better knowing that even in a world as foreign and strange and new as this, he could still acclimate; he could still find the similarities and use them to accept the differences.

It was a microcosm of the Assassin's Creed: reveling in the diversity and accepting the uniformity. Seeing the frailty of humanity and slowly, quietly, waiting for mankind to understand their own frailty and seek to better themselves. It was in that mood that his eagle, awake in the dying light, caught sight of something.

There: on the roof the Ayasofya. Something about the blue was off, and it bore investigating.

Nodding Ezio made his way down the minaret only after the night prayers, _Isha,_ were complete and the mosque was empty. When he reached the ground he pulled out some trail mix for supper and studied the mosque, slowly plotting out a path; he would need his hookblade for this, some of those jumps would test him and his bad shoulder, but the thought of a climb gave him exhilaration as little else did these days. The distractions of his time with Yusuf slowly fell away, and he was once again on his pilgrimage, he was looking for a key to Altaïr's locked library in Masyaf, he was looking for wisdom that would make everything make sense. Make his life make sense. Make all the death and carnage make sense. Anticipation began to fill him, and he wondered what he would find. Would he find a secret passage? Would he find another key? Another statue?

Eagerly he began to climb, the ancient brickwork providing plenty of hand and footholds; getting up to the first line of the roof was simple. After that was a two story vertical face, and he needed his hookblade to leap from one window frame to the next. He almost missed the jump, and falling would have been painful, but at the last minute the blade did its job and he swung for six heartbeats before he got his body under control again. Once he was on the second line of the roof he gave himself a moment to breathe. His arms were sore already, a sign of his age, and his shoulders and lower back were beginning to protest the work. Were that he was younger for this! The moon was continuing its climb to the sky, however, and he used its minimal light to work himself up even higher. It was not the challenge of the Castel Sant'Angelo, but it did take two hours to finally reach the roof he wanted and his body was more than displeased with him.

That all fell aside, however, as he knelt down to see what had caught the eye of the eagle in his mind. He couldn't make it out in the moonlight, so he pulled out a candle and lit it to see better. The lead was laid out in massive squares, almost like tiles, and the dimensions were impressive. But, curiously, there was one slab that had a barely-visible outline _inside_. Ezio pressed his fingers at the border, and could just get his pads under the stonework. His back got another workout as he lifted it up and away, and he was sure he would pay for this in the morning. His candle didn't reach deep enough into the revealed hole, but he did notice that the inside was completely dry. He looked at the lead dubiously. Lead was nonporous...? Yes, he realized belatedly, it was, and that meant whatever moisture had leaked in over the centuries through the seams of the inlaid square were negligible. He swung his legs into the tiny square of darkness, but they still hung out over air and, taking a breath, he dropped in. He only fell about eight feet, he had more than enough room to stand tall. No moisture was at his feet, even after the afternoon downpour, and he saw that there was some drainage in the tiny little nook he found himself. There was also a narrow passage. He had to squeeze and nearly got stuck as he progressed – he wondered where he was in relation to the inside, but he had yet to enter the grandiose mosque and put the query aside – and ended in another tiny nook. Whatever little moisture leaked in the roof was utterly devoid here, the air was stale and dry and dusty.

And, up just above his head, was another hole. Reaching up, Ezio plunged his hand in to find it bump up against something. After some finagling he pulled a book out of the knoll. It was ancient, and he could not make out the fanciful script in dim candlelight. He plunged his hand back up to the knoll, but there was nothing else there. Slightly perturbed that _this_ was all he had found, he still took the care to wrap it in a wax-coated cloth and squeeze his way back through the passage and up to the roof. Replacing the lead tile inside a tile, his back creaked as it straightened and he looked up to the sky. It was midnight.

Sighing, he began the arduous task of climbing back down.

He slept well into the morning for all his work; Yusuf laughed at him for coming back so late, asking if Sofia Sartor was such a fascinating scholar. Ezio held up the ancient book in answer and the two looked over its contents. Neither could make out the penmanship – it seemed to be a journal of some kind – but the more important part was the added marks in the opening margins. It was back to Sofia after that with a curious Azize in tow as escort.

"Well?" the redhead had asked when Ezio returned. "Was there anything at Ayasofya that was interesting?"

" _Si_ ," Ezio replied, holding up the book. Sofia's eyes light up like fireworks, and she practically jumped out of her seat and maneuvered around her desk to see what the greying grandmaster had brought.

"I... I don't believe it," she murmured. " _Mission to Constantinopoli..._ It's the journal of Liutprand of Cremona!"

"Who?" Ezio asked, but Azize's eyes doubled in size.

"The author of _Historia Ottonis_?" she asked, shocked, "And _Relatio de legatione Constantinopolitana ad Nicephorum Phocam_?"

Sofia nodded. "This must be a diary of his first mission to Constantinopoli, when he was an apprentice diplomat, I wonder if the rumors are true and he really did have a hand in writing _De Administrando Imperio_. What a find! Imagine circulating a print of this!" She looked up to Ezio, eyes wide and hopeful and excited and so, _so_ beautiful. Her face was bright in anticipation; Azize was in a similar state, visible even under her _hijab_ , and even if Ezio planned on being fastidious he had no hope under two women who knew who the hell this Liutprand of Cremona was and what affect he had in history. He held up his hands before Sofia could even ask.

"All I need are the words in the margins, you can do with the book as you please."

Sofia gave a flash of a smile. She touched Ezio's arm fondly, offering a grateful, " _Grazie,_ " before disappearing to the back rooms to get to work. Ezio felt warmth rush through him where he had been touched, and he couldn't quite stop smiling.

* * *

Three days later he stopped by and discovered that the marks in the margins – penned by the Polos again – were two fold. One was a description of Galata Tower, obviously Ezio's next stop, and the other was some kind of cipher for the encrypted map that had been hidden in the Yebertan Cistern. That affected the work she had done on the map up to that point, essentially making her start over from scratch, but she was hopeful that she wouldn't need another six odd months to figure out the next location hinted at on the map. This was, of course, articulated in between the exclamations of excitement and adulation over the book Ezio had given her.

When he arrived back at the hideout, Yusuf had letters from Claudia and Federica waiting for him.

His breath caught reading from his sister, and he realized all too suddenly it was _December_. Being in an Islamic territory, warmer than Italia and without a Roman Catholic calendar, the month had never sunk in; and now it hit him all at once. This was when _it_ happened, when his father and brothers were lost to the rope.

From seventeen to fifty-two. Thirty-five years.

God. It had been _thirty-five years._

But it was all still so clear in his mind's eye, he could still see them, swinging, choking, desperately clinging to life. It was also eleven years since his uncle's death, temple blown to pieces from gunfire, dying to protect Ezio. The pain swept over him unexpectedly, his hands were shaking as he read Claudia's letter, reading as she recalled stories of happier times, mourning in her own way and trying to share it. She talked about Duccio, about Petruccio and the quills all those feathers had created, she shared stories about her and Mother, sitting on Father's knee, the smells of the bakery. He collapsed into his chair by the fire, mind lost in memory. Yusuf had not expected such a reaction, and asked what terrible news he could have received.

Ezio shook his head. "I need canvas, a frame, paints."

"Why? What happened, _Usta_?"

"I... I need to paint."

For two weeks he was effectively locked away, working on the canvas. He spoke to Yusuf and the other assassins briefly when he had to; he had gone through this enough times to know cutting himself off completely would do little good, and was irresponsible besides. But his heart and mind weren't in the work, his priorities were elsewhere: the charcoal in his hand and the sweeping arcs and lines, composing eyes, noses, faces, expressions. He reached into his memory to find the essence of his family of old, trying to put all his feelings on canvas. Every year he tried, Leonardo had even offered to paint it for him, but something was missing, some ethereal quality that always made him feeling lacking. Some of his apprentices and recruits came from painter families, the few that caught glimpses of this most personal project tried to tell him that it was beautiful, that he wasn't missing anything. It wasn't that he didn't believe them, but those faces were never... _alive_ , the way he had done other portraits.

And, of course, that was the problem.

Nothing he did could bring his family back, nothing could replace Giovanni, or Federico, or Petruccio, or _Zio_ Mario, or Maria. No brush stroke, no mixture of color, no study of light, nothing could replace his beloved family, and it was that fact that made his portrait incomplete, ineffective, and ultimately made him throw the work away.

It was the third week of Advent when Yusuf, who had been watching Ezio slowly spiral into depression, touched his shoulder.

"Ezio," he said softly, "I want to show you something."

The grandmaster looked at him blankly, emotionally spent.

In Yusuf's hands was a small book; the writing inside was Turkish and meant nothing to Ezio, but Yusuf explained as he thumbed the pages.

"Tahir and Kadmus, our two masons," he said, his voice soft, tone lost between mellow and whimsical, "They managed to unearth an old room when they were clearing away the latest round of debris. They found this in there. It's from my old _usta_ , Ishak _Pasha_."

Ezio blinked slowly, realizing what Yusuf was sharing. Ishak was the Grand Vizier of the sultanate, responsible for killing Vlad Tepes, and under the _sultan's_ order practically repopulated Constantinopoli after its fall to the Ottomans by transferring the citizens of Aksaray to the vast metropolis. It was then that the Assassins were able to establish a strong presence, to say nothing of his recruitment and training of Yusuf. Ishak _Pasha_ had been dead for barely five years before Yusuf, his replacement, had taken charge of the Ottoman half of the Ottoman-Venetian meeting of Assassins to try and bring an end to the conflict. Ishak _Pasha_ was as near and dear to Yusuf as family, as _Ezio's_ family, and he was sharing the man's journal.

"You don't have to do this," Ezio said softly, emotion filling his voice. He coughed and tried again. "I know what finding something like this means to you."

Yusuf nodded, sitting on the floor. "My _usta..._ " he started, but like Ezio he was full of emotion, and his thoughts trailed off to the ethers of the fire. "He was a good man but a hard master. He kept everything very close to his chest." Yusuf patted his own to emphasize the point. "It was impossible to get a reaction out of him – and believe me when I say I tried when I was a boy. I knew he valued me as a _suikastchi_ , but..." He stared at the fire, frowning, before trying again. "He was the father I never had; but I don't know..."

And so Ezio acted as counsel as Yusuf read through his mentor's last journal. The Turkish assassin said nothing, flipping through the pages slowly and deliberately, and only once did his eyes well up and he put his head down, absorbing whatever words he had found. Ezio sat mute, canvas before him but for the first time utterly forgotten, as he waited to see if his friend needed him in some way. It was hours later when Yusuf finished, eyes staring at nothing, absorbing everything, before he looked up to the Italian mentor and smiled.

"I think I will keep this," he said, voice watery, and tucked it away deep in his belt. "I have learned something, and I can see why you want to find words similar to these. Come, it's time I started actively paying my debt to you."

"You hardly have to-"

"Yes, Ezio, I do."

And so Yusuf led Ezio out into the city, across the Halich and past the Kapalicharshi. They stopped at Ayasofya, once more at the opening plaza of trees and flowerbeds. Yusuf took Ezio past the manicured landscape and to the nook of one of the four columns. Crouching down, the Turkish Assassin extended his hidden blade and worked at an otherwise unremarkable relief. Ezio could hear the clicking of old gears and pulleys, and he was taken back to his youth, gallivanting about Italia and finding skulls in triangles that would twist into the Assassin symbol. A tomb...?

Yusuf saw Ezio's look and smiled. " _Usta_ said that this used to be a training ground for Assassins, before the Ottomans came in and declared it a mosque. It's still under repair after the earthquake, so even when it's prayer time we should be okay so long as we're careful."

"Is there somewhere specific you want to show me?"

"Only the best view of the mosque," Yusuf said with a grin. " _Usta_ would take me up there when I was young, and we would listen to Friday prayers. I haven't been back since Little Judgment; too busy I guess. But I think it's high time I visited. I don't know what you Christians would call it, but for me it was a close to _jannah_ as a man can get."

"Paradise," Ezio muttered, remembering the many lessons Azize had pounded into him about Islamic traditions and the meaning of certain words.

The two men entered into a corner of the mosque that was walled off with scaffolding and construction material. The pair ascended it easily, and Ezio let Yusuf take the lead, hopping over a few beams and using holes in the stucco as handholds to make their way through the upper reaches of the hall. Ezio couldn't get a good feel for the space at first; he was too intent of following Yusuf and finding handholds. They arrived at a long crossbeam that led to a hole in the wall, Yusuf nodding to himself and likely comparing it to his memories. He led Ezio through the brickwork that was only partly repaired. They swung down a series of beams and landed tightly on the ground. The Turkish Assassin moved around another construction scaffold and for a moment Ezio was breathless as he entered the main chamber of the mosque.

The late morning sun poured through the myriad windows in massive shafts of light, illuminating the mosaic tile floor, and bouncing off the yellow brick and stucco work. Massive arches and orthogonals created what Ezio could best describe as a bubbly ceiling; the pinnacle being the perfectly circular dome that rose up in the middle of the uneven surfaces. Even more windows lined the circumference, and a series of chandeliers hung, long forgotten, from the inverted sphere. Art was everywhere, frescoes and paintings and urns and other items, some of it still Christian, most of it painted over to Islamic imagery. Light was everywhere, illuminating everything and giving the mosque an ethereal cast.

He whistled in spite of himself.

Yusuf giggled. "You know whistling is bad manners, _evet_?" He looked up to the dome, his face momentarily unreadable. "Come," he said in a more serious tone, " _Dzhur_ prayers will be soon, and we want to be up in the gallery by then." His customary grin bled through his beard, however, as he added, "Let's take the _fun_ way up." And Yusuf was off like an arrow, taking a running start before scrambling up a wall and leaping backwards – almost blindly – to a nearby chandelier. Ezio followed suit, the two men leaping from one chandelier to the next, waiting for the swinging to settle, and then repeating the process until they were on an old construction beam that was level with the upper floor of the mosque.

They traced the path of the beam as far as they could but found no entrance to the gallery. Using their hookblades on a pulley line, they flew across the ornate tiles of the floor to the other side of the mosque, landing on the construction platform they had walked around to see the inside of the mosque. Yusuf lead them carefully around an injured arch and at last up to the gallery, the upper levels of the mosque. Just in time, too, as men and women filtered in for their noon prayers. The _imam's_ voice echoed mightily off the walls, the acoustics were excellent, and Ezio watched respectfully as everyone below – even the normally agnostic Yusuf – bow down and pray.

Afterwards Yusuf took lead again, taking him from one gallery to the next, always poking his head out over the edge and looking up, trying to spy something. "Aha!" he said expansively when he found what he was looking for. "That should do nicely." And, fifteen minutes later when the last of the parishioners had left, Yusuf used his hookblade on a repair wall and began to shimmy his way out and around to the outside, leaving him over forty feet above ground. Ezio followed suit, still not sure where all of this was going, and watched where the Turkish mentor put his hands and feet. They cleared several galleries that were missing floors, slowly making their circumference around the upper floor of the mosque, before Yusuf stopped in mid-stride. He looked out over the balcony and grinned.

"Here we are," he said. "From here, only a _suikastchi_ can go. The real fun starts now."

And, with a bold running start, he leapt out over the yawning expanse to a support beam, barely catching on and hoisting himself up. Ezio followed, and the two men traipsed over the length of wood and then up a wall. More platforms were up here, but much, _much_ older; they were thin, dusty, rickety, blending into the stucco of the wall. Yusuf rested on them a moment before darting up the wall, and Ezio could see much more familiar handholds here, old and worn with the obvious signs of use.

They passed under a window, the shaft of light almost blinding Ezio before he ducked his head. Yusuf took another impressive backwards leap, landing on a chandelier. " _Guzel_ ," he said. "No major damage so far. I think we'll be safe all the way up."

" _Up_?" Ezio asked incredulously, unable to turn his head to glare at his friend. "Your _jannah_ is even _higher_?"

Yusuf laughed, his voice echoing off the walls of the mosque in rueful mockery of Ezio's indignation.

They rested on the chandelier for half an hour, Yusuf cryptically saying the hardest part of the journey was coming, before he was attacking the wall again, making his way around until they completed one of the arches and hitting a flat wall. Said wall was flooded with windows – Ezio was slightly turned around now and didn't know which way he was facing – and the two men darted their way up the available crossbars of the glass and reaching the central dome of the building. The Florentine was beginning to guess where they were heading, and it was confirmed when Yusuf began climbing the convex arch of the dome. Ezio had performed similar feat, at the Duomo, and he dreaded how his body would hate him for this, but at the same time anticipation was beginning to fill him.

Another back jump and they were once more on chandelier; they had reached the very apex of the dome, there was nowhere else to go. Yusuf stretched out on his belly, Ezio following suit with a few more creaks and complaints. The sun was lower in the sky now, the light more golden, and all at once Ezio understood why this place was so special to Yusuf.

"You are right," Ezio said softly, looking down at the light and the shadows and the glow of the building. "It really is close to Heaven up here."

"So you do have a word for it," Yusuf said, smirking.

" _Si_ ," Ezio replied. "Perhaps not as pretty as _Jannah_ , but it still gets the point across."

Time passed, the men watching as the golden glow slowly moved about the chamber.

"I wonder what it was like when this place was still a church," Yusuf said. "You Christians have religious songs, _evet_? I wonder what this place sounded like then."

"Your prayers are very musical," Ezio said.

"But they are _prayers, Usta_. My mind is on the faith, not the sounds. That's one thing I'll grant you Christians; some of your songs-"

"Psalms."

" _Evet_ , some of your _psalms_ are very beautiful, and I don't have to worry about my soul to listen to them."

"... A children's choir, I should think," Ezio said slowly, mulling over the thought. "A Gregorian chant would be too sober and overdo the effect. But a really good children's choir can sound like the songs of angels, and it would fit the light here."

They stayed up there for over two hours, watching and listening to afternoon prayers. Yusuf again participated, muttering the _rakaats_ to himself with his eyes closed and his face calm, even meditative. His voice joined the hundreds below, somehow dissonant and harmonious at the same time, and Ezio saw for the first time that praying so many times over the course of the day might not be an inconvenience to the Ottomans. If even the ever-worried, the ever-joking Yusuf could find such peace in order to pray, then Ezio could not begrudge the occasional annoyance he felt when he had to stop what he was doing for ten minutes as an escort prayed. He wondered if Elda, a recruit who had once been a nun, had felt such peace when she prayed. The Florentine had never felt like that when he went to mass; he remembered as a boy listening to the priest drone on in Latin and trying to sit still while his mother shushed him. Florentines – at best – had a casual relationship with God, and after everything that had happened in Ezio's life he would never subscribe to worshiping an ethereal being that was constructed to keep people pliant and submissive to higher authorities. But he could understand, in moments like these, that some – even many – found... something... in such religion. Was that what he was missing in his life? What that what he was looking for?

… No. It was something else.

Feeling tired, he nudged Yusuf, pulling the Turk out of his revelry, and the two began the descent.

* * *

The next day Ezio couldn't bring up the energy needed to explore Galata Tower and see where the next key was located. He should have been jumping at the chance but the envy he felt for Yusuf finding peace with his dead mentor poked at Ezio in a way he didn't like, and so he took the day to get his head on straight before continuing on his pilgrimage.

He toured the dens across the Halich. Meryem was not quite as wild-eyed as when she first started, and she had dragged Kasim with her to try and aid in his recovery from his failure. The young assassin took one look at Ezio and fled – a reaction the grandmaster had not expected – and Meryem shook her head, saying she would work on him. Obelius was healing nicely and taking up light duty, still trying to look like he was in charge even while members of his host prodded him into his more childish reactions. Fusun had her ear to the ground for the trickster that had nearly killed Kizzy and didn't want to be bothered, and poor Sila looked like she was going to fly apart at the seams with the pressure she was under. Ezio tried to be supportive, but he didn't understand what her problem was and that made it difficult.

And so he checked in with Sotiris, the Assassin Ezio had rescued that had a daughter.

" _Buon giorno_. How have you taken to your new post?"

"I do my best, _Usta_ ," the Greek assassin said, tone matter-of-fact, "but it is no easy task to oversee a district in constant peril."

"Peril?" Ezio asked, surprised. "What has happened? A den attack?"

Sotiris shook his head. "Despite our presence, the influence of Templar money is strong. Most of the merchants here are still taking bribes. The prices here are astronomical compared to other places like the Kapalicharshi, and bitterness sweeps through the district in large swaths."

" _Dannazione_ ," Ezio cursed. "We should talk to the people, and get a feeling for their mood. Come, we'll see if they have any theories as to why the economy is so unfair here."

The two left the den and walked to the open air market. Kapalicharshi might have been the central hub, but it was not the only hub, and several markets – open and closed – existed throughout the city. "Most of the merchants who have sold their allegiance are Greek," Sotiris was explaining, "The Byzantines were Greek, and whatever they thought about Constantine XI, patriotism appears even when it isn't rational; and I am not ashamed to say that I understand why. My parents were very bitter when the Ottomans took over, even though they converted to Islam to prevent problems. I lost three aunts and an uncle in the fall, and as a child I hated the Ottomans because I thought they were responsible. I understand now that an entire people cannot be blamed for the actions of the man leading them. I hope that my daughter will understand this as she grows up."

The greying grandmaster nodded. "Then you are a better citizen than most, _efendim_. We cannot expect men to find any comfort in having been conquered. But just as they have a right to demand dignity from the Ottomans, the Byzantines have an obligation to keep the innocents safe from harm. This requires a careful balancing act, and we should not be surprised if we stumble from time to time."

"Here we are," Sotiris said, the pair arriving at an open air market filled with Greek sounds and phrases the Ezio couldn't understand.

"Then let's begin."

The two split up and began making their way through the market. Gambling that he didn't need Greek to understand bitterness and dissent, the Florentine moved through the crowds slowly, eagle awake. Ezio saw one man, tall and with skin as black as night, moving through the crowds in a dark blue turban before stopping to talk to one of the Greek merchants. Ezio moved in to see what about the man had caught his attention. He was too late to hear the brief exchange, but he did hear one very specific phrase.

"May the Father of Understanding guide and keep you."

 _That_ was a phrase Ezio knew very well from various intercepted missives, letters, and orders he and Machiavelli had read. It was a Templar phrase, and he was suddenly _very_ interested in the two men. The dark man in the blue turban was already several lengths down the street, so Ezio looked to the Greek merchant. His eyes widened involuntarily to see the massive crate at the man's feet, open to reveal it was full of coin.

"This is an impressive take for a single day," he said by way of introduction.

The merchant glared at the Turkish and was immediately defensive. "What business is it of _yours_ how quickly I make my money? I take care of my neighbors, and they take care of me." He then shoved Ezio away from his stand.

Right.

Ezio moved back through the market again. He saw Sotiris was moving methodically from one stall to the next, and Ezio left him to talk to the merchants. Instead, he awakened the eagle in his mind and looked for the symbol on the crate he had seen from the first merchant. Finding one, he moved to talk to the merchant.

"How did you come across this incredible sum of money?" he asked, impressed.

Again, the reaction was defensive. "Where did you learn your manners, _Italyani_? In the court of the Borgia? Clear away from my shop!"

Ezio kept further back, instead just looking for the crest. Two others had such sums and, yes, "A large sum for him as well..." The other merchants knew damn well that several were being bought off, they glared at the stands balefully, bitterly bemoaning their poverty and jealous of the others that seemed to be so well off. Ezio spied one other merchant, and he eyed Sotiris, who had also approached. A quick exchange of information showed they had reached the same conclusion. Ezio risked approaching the merchant; he needed information now.

" _Salute, amico,_ " he said politely, "Forgive me for asking, but the insignia on this chest… what does it mean?"

"That?" he asked, "It is the seal of Theodorus Komnenos."

"And he is your benefactor?" Sotiris asked.

"Benefactor? _Ohi_!" he said spitefully. "He is my friend, my countryman. And one of the wealthiest men in this district _despite_ our new masters."

"Of course," Ezio said, ever polite. " _Grazie_."

Twenty minutes later they had left the market and discussed the problem. Sotiris had also found the name Theodorus circled around.

"What do you think? Shall we pay Theodorus a visit?"

Sotiris frowned, shaking his head. "I do not want to start a fight we cannot justify, _Usta_. We have enough problems as it is, I'd rather not make more with something that is – at best – suspicion. I have a daughter to think about."

"Nor do I," Ezio agreed, "and if we can find a way to avoid bloodshed, we will. But if the Templars are behind this, that will give us few options. The last time I let a Templar live, he burned my home to the ground and killed my uncle right in front of my eyes."

Sotiris grunted. "I understand, _Usta_."

They took to the roofs, crossing the district in the late afternoon. There were fewer people heeding the call to prayer here; the strong Greek population making for fewer Muslims. The crowds continued to be thick and moving, and slowly they made their way to a square near the old city wall. Byzantine guards stood boldly in their armor, surrounding an overhang where a Greek was pacing about and talking (or rather, yelling) to himself.

"What!" he growled. "Ten thousand Akche is not enough? Did he actually say that? Is he mad? Does he think I piss money? Far be it for _me_ to question how these Templars work, but I have been hemorrhaging money ever since I came into their company. Find me a quill, quickly!" he shouted to one of the guards. "I believe I will write these men a sternly worded missive, packed with subtle barbs and tawdry insinuations. If that does not get their attention, I don't know what will."

"That's him," Sotiris said. Then he frowned. "What does he think a _letter_ is going to do?"

"A testament to his character, perhaps," Ezio posited. "Is there a way to distract those guards?"

Sotiris gave a mighty grin, dipping into one of his pouches and pulling out a bomb.

In the span of twenty minutes, pyrite coins littered the square, the false gold drawing the attention of _everyone_ , guards included, and even the ever greedy Theodorus. The two assassins flanked him and grabbed his arms, backtracking him to his overhang and pinned him to a wall with their hoods and frowns.

"Theodorus," Ezio said politely, a hard edge in his voice. " _Buon giorno_."

"Ah!" the wealthy merchant said, startled by the manhandling and instantaneously nervous. "W-who are you?"

"You have been quite free with your money lately," Ezio said deliberately, "and the _Suikastchi_ would like to know what your generosity purchased."

The wealthy little man went utterly white, eyes bulging, shaking. " _Suikastchi_. You? _Both_ of you?" The wall suddenly became the only thing holding him upright.

"Calm, _efendi,_ " Sotiris said, lifting a placating hand. "We mean no harm."

But Theodorus burst into tears. "I don't want to die!" he blubbered. "Please! Spare my troubled soul! The Templars have corrupted me! I am a good man at heart! I repent, I repent! Please don't kill me! Please, you must understand! I did not go to the Templars. They came to me! Threatening me with violence if I did not comply with their demands!"

"Which are what, exactly?" Ezio asked.

Theodorus was too busy sniveling and begging for his life, but Sotiris snapped his fingers in realization. "Now it makes sense. He pays money to the merchants in _Suikastchi_ districts to keep prices artificially high, hoping this will turn public opinions against us. Some of the merchants I was talking to said they heard the money was being skimmed by men who claimed to be benefactors of the city, men involved in lurid activities and wore white. I didn't put it together before, but they're talking about us. I've told many people that I'm part of a group that wants the city to benefit; they're using my own rhetoric against me! _Katherma_!" he cursed.

Ezio turned menacing eyes to the coward merchant. "So what do we do with you, Theodorus Komnenos? Are you any use to us at all?"

But the Greek merchant was lost in his blubbering and panic. No amount of prodding could bring him out of his hysterical stupor, and the two assassins were forced to drag him to a secluded courtyard while he man had his fit. Sotiris disappeared briefly to tell his daughter that he was likely in for a long day, a _very_ long day. By the time he returned, Ezio was tired of waiting for Theodorus to come back to his senses, and he dumped a bucket of water on the man. Sputtering, he looked up to see the two assassins were still looming over them. He fell to their feet.

"I can take you to the Templar enforcer!" he said quickly, anxious for the chance to spare his life. "He is an African named Dunqas. He is the man in charge of running this scheme."

" _Bene,_ " Ezio said in flat approval. "Lead us there, and we will do all we can to keep you safe."

Theodorus ran away. Ezio and Sotiris quickly took to the roofs and followed suit, invisible to the nervous merchant.

"The Templars' coffers are deep. We have always had a difficult time competing on that score," Ezio muttered to himself.

"When you champion the poor and powerless, you take on certain risks," Sotiris replied.

Ezio snorted. "Better to be poor than wrong, is that it?"

" _Vai_ ," Sotiris said, nodding his head. "Principle has to mean something. Hypocrites are always the first to die in this world; I thought I'd rather starve to death than sell myself out to the highest bidder when I was young. With a daughter now, I find such thinking to be much more fluid. These days I want as much money as possible to make sure my daughter will have a safe future. That thinking is dangerous though; I'm still working through it."

"We all do," Ezio said softly.

Half an hour later the nervous merchant came up to a much more subtly dressed Byzantine; the armor was minimal, the half cape gone, but the crest was still emblazoned on the smock.

"... A fine day, don't you think?" Theodorus asked below, a nervous laugh bubbling up.

"Bearable," the guard said in a clipped tone. The pair began to walk, Ezio and Sotiris trailing on the roofs, invisible to all.

"Are we late? I fear we are. I mean, it's no bother. We can meet tomorrow."

"We are right on time."

"Ah. Wonderful... Suddenly I… I don't feel very well. I may be coming down with a… a touch of something."

"This will not take long. You give us the money, we give you access. The Guardian will explain all."

"Ah yes, the African gentleman. Y-yes."

"Do you know anything about this man?" Ezio asked his Greek companion.

"Not much," Sotiris confessed. "He's from Alexandria. There are rumors that he's related to some _sultan_ down that way. He calls himself the Guardian of Truth, I don't know why. He's relatively new to the district, the last two years or so. I didn't think much of it at the time, you can find someone from almost anywhere in this city, but now I see I should have paid more attention."

In the span of fifteen minutes they were in a narrow alley that lead to steps and a landing. The dark skinned man from before, Dunqas, was there with another guard, making a total of three.

"Theodorus Komnenos," the African said in a low voice. "You have been a friend to the Templars, and a generous partner. What would you say to a permanent appointment with our man in Alexandria? We could use man of your… means."

Sotiris cursed in Greek. " _Anathema!_ That coward will cave with an offer like that."

"What would I say?" Theodorus said, shaking again. "Well I… ah… _Suikastchi_! They followed me! Look! They are here!"

"Lazy fool," Ezio cursed.

"Our business here is done," Dunqas growled, taking a knife and stabbing Theodorus, the guard shoving the terrified man aside to die in a gutter. As one the pair fled in opposite directions.

"You follow the Guardian," Ezio ordered, already taking off. "I can catch up."

Dashing over the rooftops, Ezio kept the Byzantine in sight with his eagle, leaping over two alleys before he was close enough to perform and air assassination. The impact jarred his aging bones, but the body broke his fall and he was on his feet even as the people around started to scream. Backtracking, he was racing up a hill before he saw the African speeding around a corner, nearly bowling him over.

" _Usta!_ " Sotiris said, but Ezio was ahead of him, pulling out his crossbow and taking careful aim. Too many people were in the way however, and he cursed and gave chase. They had nearly hit the old Constantinian city wall when he had a clear shot, and Dunqas tumbled to the ground. Sotiris followed up, taking his hidden blade and plunging it into the man to be sure. Ezio was disappointingly out of breath and pulled back, letting the Greek have the kill.

"So it comes to this, does it?" Dunqas gurgled. "Wealth, power, ambition… such things I have seen in my short time on earth, and reveled in them. Such things are the wonders of man. You may believe you have ended my life, but the truth is, you have completed it. To perish in this age-old struggle is an honor befitting a king."

"Then die with your pride," Sotiris said. " _Huzur ichinde yatsin._ "

"Search his body," Ezio said, still getting his breath under control. "We'll need any documents he possesses to prove you are not behind the price hikes. We will also need to round up his patrons and explain what their options are."

" _Evet, Usta_ ," Sotiris agreed. "I can do that." He looked up to the sky. " _Lanet oslun_ ," he cursed. "I missed two prayers because of this _pich_."

* * *

Christmas came and the seasonal depression hit him again. Yusuf had done all he could, and Ezio had written a long, painful letter to Claudia trying to express his grief and simultaneously work through it, but the sadness wouldn't go away, and painting only seemed to make it worse. Frustrated, he abandoned the canvas and decided to pull himself out of it. He left the hideout unescorted, pounding the streets and glaring up at Galata Tower. Growling, mad at himself, he pushed past the rows of beggars and began to climb. He pushed himself hard, taking the most dangerous route to try and work through all the negative energy, but it only left him feeling exhausted by the time he'd reached the zenith. He panted and gasped for breath, muscles aching, and cursing that he had done something so irrational. He felt like a boy again, running through Monteriggioni at faster and faster clips, taking more and more reckless leaps to try and work through his depression. That had lead to him breaking a foot while tailing Jacopo de' Pazzi to a meeting with Rodrigo Borgia and the Venetian Templars. It had nearly cost him his life.

Sighing, he shivered in the chilly air. Heavy clouds were everywhere, grey making him even more depressed, and he decided instead to be productive. He had been sitting on the knowledge that a Masyaf key likely hid in Galata Tower, but his own weariness had held him back. Now he would push past it, knowing that Claudia's birthday was coming, and with it he needed to write well wishes and think about happier times. He just needed to _get_ there. With a deep breath, he broke into the tower.

Inside there was little light, the grey skies outside making it even dimmer. Ezio slowly walked down the spiral staircase hugging the tower, eyes and eagle open as he made his way down. He was surprised to find nothing at first; most Assassin tombs in Italia had been up high. The towers of San Gimignano, the _lanterna_ in the Duomo, the barracks in Forlì... the path to which only an assassin could climb. But, then, there were the catacombs as well, and most of the assassin lairs here in Constantinopoli were underground, and that made him pick up speed. He had entered at the wrong end of the tower.

And, as expected, there was a relief at the base of the tower, much like the one Yusuf had demonstrated at Ayasofya, that only a hidden blade could fit into. A panel unlocked, and Ezio stepped into the darkness ready to- _merda_!

The floor fell out from underneath him, and he fell briefly before landing awkwardly on a steep incline and sliding down. Ezio scrambled for purchase, hookblade extended to try and stop or at least control his fall. Something banged into his side, he skittered several directions and even twisted before his hookblade at last grabbed onto something. His arm yanked quite nearly out of its socket, and before he could catch his breath the hook popped off and he was sliding again. Cursing viciously, he scrambled a second time before realizing he was falling at a slower clip, and that calmed him down enough that he looked where he was going. There was a mass of debris beyond him and a yawning darkness; taking a massive gamble he angled himself and then arched out to grab it. He could feel things coming loose, and he wondered if he had just doomed himself, but at the last minute he spied a platform and leapt for it.

He landed roughly, rolling and holding himself still as the massive, ominous, echoey sound of the debris falling and falling thundered around him. Heart up in his throat, he listened as the threatening noises slowly faded, replaced by his own thunderous heartbeat and heavy breathing.

Once he was under control, he stood up. His side hurt from the fall down, but he stretched it out and looked out to...

He stared.

The cisterns the Assassins used, the cistern the Polos had access to in Sofia's shop, all of it utterly _paled_ in comparison to this cistern. It was built into the very rock, the cornerstones of the semicircle arches were easily as big as a man, water was _everywhere_. An underground lake? He knew the Lycus river ran underground at least partially, and between the Halich and the Sea of Marama there was certainly plenty of sources, but the scale of this was enormous, even epic. How did the Polos even find their way down here? Had that rocky slide always been there, or was the debris he had just sent careening down to the abyss the remnants of a means of getting down here? Ezio looked at the platform he clung to and could see signs of age, this had been here for a long time, perhaps – no, most certainly – hundreds of years.

Light from above filtered down in great, gray shafts, and the waterfalls echoing around the chamber reflected the dim light to reveal platforms further on. There was a path here, locked away by an assassin door, and Ezio, breathless, realized he was on the right track.

That mentality put him on firmer ground, and he felt less thrown about after the fall. His eyes traced up the way he had come, and a tiny corner of his mind dreaded the climb back up, but there was no helping it. He could do it, and that was all he needed to know.

Ezio followed the platforms, eyeing the impressive vista until he ducked through a narrow passage of rock. This chamber was much smaller, with ancient signs of construction. Massive beams were arranged in some incomplete form that Ezio did not recognize, but they lead to a secondary hole in the rocks much higher up, and he climbed them nervously, aware that all the moisture in this underground chamber would rot any and everything. As he made his way around, he realized it was a _very_ old construction platform, almost a bridge, partially dilapidated by time and rot. He hopped over the beams slowly, checking his footing first, before reaching the gap and passing through it. Beyond was an ancient waterwheel, broken beyond repair, with a steady trickle of water mockingly falling on it, as if daring it to still spin. What did it operate, he wondered.

He climbed the waterwheel, looking beyond to see a series of beams injected into the very rock itself. Had ancient assassins used them to ensure the security of the structure in face of the city's earthquakes? Ezio hopped up, bouncing across them to reach more ancient construction. Would this have been the original hideout?

He climbed the ancient wooden tower, uncomfortable with how it sagged under his weight, and slowly looked around. There was a narrow stone path, and he followed it slowly, hearing the waterfalls again. The pass lead to another old platform, and beyond was the waterfall. He could just make out an impressive hole behind the water, tantalizing the idea that there was more beyond, but how to get there?

Looking around, he found a narrow lip of rock that he could just put his feet on. Beneath it the rock seemed to have been reinforced again by ancient beams, rotted here and there. Ezio took a breath and gave one last glance at the-

The hole.

It was the silhouette of the Assassin symbol.

Ezio shook his head, trying to pass it off as coincidence.

The narrow lip was slippery almost beyond reason, and that made movement unbearably slow, but Ezio held fast to his patience and took his time. Beyond the waterfall was a second, and it took almost two hours to make his way across, stopping at a stone platform this time, slick with water but flat and spacious enough that the greying grandmaster breathed a sigh of relief and sat down. He was back in the first chamber, he could make out the platform he had started from, and once more marveled at the cavernous space. His stomach growled, and he realized how poorly prepared he was for this journey. It would be at least nightfall before he returned, and he growled at his own stupidity.

At the far end of the platform were steps hewn from the very rock itself, still slick from the waterfall but not utterly soaked. Ezio climbed slowly as it lead to one of the enormous arches towards the top of the cavern. More beams lay ahead, and he took them carefully, working his way around the perimeter of the base column of the massive arch and stopping at another stone platform. He was far away from the waterfall now, and he saw a rope bridge, half rotted, crossing the chasm to the other side. He went across in leaps and bounds, afraid of lingering too long on any one beam, but they all held his weight and he breathed yet another sigh of relief when he was finished.

There was more stone and/or wood platforms, one more sturdy than the other, and more secure in footing this high above the waterline. Ezio was getting slightly turned around in the cavern, the dim grey light not helping. He didn't want to pull out a candle until he absolutely had to.

It took over an hour to navigate his way around the cavern, going high and low and high again, footing mostly dry but sometimes dangerously wet, crossing the chasm back and forth before, beyond, he saw distinctly Roman architecture. Between an impressive break in the rock was a stone-built wall, simple in design. Ezio passed under it curiously. It wasn't of the Polo time, it was even older, of the days of the Roman empire. Where had it come from? Why was it here in this monumental cistern? The Polos had said nothing about this in their journal, indeed had said so little that Ezio was beginning to realize the magnitude of how much he didn't know. How long did it take the Polo brothers to not only construct an Assassin den in Sofia's shop, but hire masons to connect it to the Yebertan Cistern, or create this wall beneath the city; for that matter, to create that hidden room that the first key had been hidden in? How many years did they spend hiding those keys? Did they understand their value, as Ezio did? Were they told to hide them, or did they do it out of fear?

No, it couldn't have been out of fear, too much respect went into building the hiding places. But how...? Why...? What...?

Past the wall was a simple room, perhaps a storeroom. A decaying barrel was there, as were bits of rope and other hints of storage. Ezio's eagle absorbed the square corners and minimal designs in the wall, trying to figure out where to go. There had been no branching paths, this was the only place to end up... There. One of the stones held the Assassin symbol engraved on it, and Ezio placed his hand there, pushing lightly and feeling give. Pressing harder, he heard an ancient creak echoing about the chamber, and a wall panel loosened. Ezio pushed past it to find a sealed off room, air perfectly dry.

Beyond was another square room, architecture reminiscent of the rooms in Masyaf, and the stone statue stood in mute shadow. This exact room had been in the cistern in Sofia's shop, and in its hands was another box holding the curious disk, the key to the Masyaf library and – perhaps – another clue that Altaïr had left etched into the ancient artifact. The key glowed as Ezio touched it, a dim yellow light that hinted at potential. He looked up to the statue.

"... _Grazie_ ," he said softly, voice bouncing off the walls quietly.

He turned and began his arduous route back to Galata Tower. It was going to take him _hours_ to get back, and he did not relish tiptoeing around the pair of waterfalls, or climbing back up that harrowing incline. He was tired, wet, hungry, and shivering in the cold, meaning the sun had set.

Some time later, when he had made it to the rickety bridge, he paused, his ears catching something.

" _Ezio!_ "

Was that...?

" _Usta!_ "

The grandmaster took a deep breath. " _I'm over here!_ " he bellowed to the top of his lungs. Everything echoed, bouncing around the vast chamber, but he could hear a faint, " _This way!_ "

Twenty minutes later Yusuf and Dogan were at the other side of the bridge, balking. "Were you _trying_ to scare us half to death?" Yusuf shouted, his voice higher than normal. "Sila said you had gone into Galata Tower and no one had seen you. Two novices broke their arms falling down here! What on _earth_ -"

Ezio held up the key.

"... I'm going to have a grand laugh over this after _I've killed you_ for the worry you put me through!"

The scolding had lasted the rest of the night and well into morning, Yusuf giving Ezio a long and detailed dissertation on his opinion of the Florentine walking about the city unescorted – about the explicit warnings Claudia had written in her letters to city Mentors if anything happened to her brother, about the dangers of a man as infamous as Ezio Auditore in a city that was flooded with Byzantine Templars and the dangerous temptations of such a venue, of the courtesy Ezio had always given before that day of telling Yusuf where he was going, of increasing assassin presence in districts Ezio would be attending to to ensure his safety, of the eagle eyes he put on Topkapi when Ezio went there, and the unending _panic_ when the assassins realized Ezio had left the hideout without telling anyone where he was going. "Sila saw you climbing Galata Tower," Yusuf said, voice echoing off the cavernous space, "We all assumed you'd be back in an hour or two, but you _never showed_!"

And then there was the little adventure of tracing Ezio's footsteps. Nobody had known about the underground cistern-patriarch they were walking through, and it had taken them the entire afternoon to ensure its safety before they could even start _looking_ for the grandmaster. "How did you even manage to get that far without dying?" Yusuf demanded as they climbed the rope that had been anchored to the stones to get them back up to the tower. Everyone had been terrified of finding his corpse – not only of Claudia's response but also the potential loss of so venerable and respectable a man. Yusuf went on and on and _on_ that he wouldn't – couldn't – forgive himself if the great Italian grandmaster – who had done so much for him without asking anything in return – had died on his watch.

Ezio took the chastisement with appropriate humility. He had not quite realized the lengths Yusuf had gone through to ensure his safety in the city, and the gesture made him feel... he wasn't sure what the word was, but he promised repeatedly that he wouldn't put the Turkish assassin through that again.

When they arrived back at the hideout, Yusuf parked Ezio in his study off the library and ordered him not to go on any more adventures.

"I'm going to spend the next two hours with a _hookah_ to come down off of that fright," Yusuf said, "And then I'm going to yell about you to Kizzy, so you are to do _nothing_ until at _least_ _Dzhur_ prayer _tomorrow_ , do you understand?"

"Yusuf, _amico_ , I assure you I plan to do nothing but study this key," Ezio said, smiling faintly. "The last time I studied it took me well into the night, and I expect similar fair here."

"You'd better!"

Ezio, still smiling slightly, allowed Yusuf to disappear to his _hookah_ and lover, closing the door and turning. The painting was still there, complete except for the faces, and Ezio stared at them for a long time. "Father," he said in Italian, "I hope that I will some day lay you to rest. And I hope that this," he held up the key, "will help me to do so." Sitting down and pulling out a fresh piece of parchment to record what he witnessed, he stilled as he realized the sun had risen. This was the anniversary of their deaths. He stared at the painting again, memories bright in his mind, and found he couldn't do it. He spent the day staring and working at his painting, needed to get through it as quickly as possible, trying to fine-tune the eyes and the smiles and the hair, trying to get it right but knowing he never would. He fell asleep sometime in the morning and did not wake until well into the evening. That was a blessing, he supposed, and he made a point of sitting with Yusuf, drinking wine and milk respectively, and trying to distract himself.

Yusuf would have none of that, however. "What happened?" he asked, finally.

And, slowly, haltingly, he talked about how his family had died; the details he could not offer Sofia slowly falling out of his mouth as he outlined the conspiracy, the road he had been forced to travel to keep his sister and mother safe, and the sacrifices all of them had made to survive. "It all started that day," he said finally, eyes burning. "This month, this season, has always been very hard for me."

Yusuf nodded slowly, running a hand through his hair. "The same thing can be seen here in September," he said slowly. "That was when the earthquake happened. Last year none of us could bear to be underground. We're a little better this year, but then you've been here, so we're a little distracted." He smiled slightly, whimsically. Yusuf shared his own stories, talking about how his mentor Ishak had died, sharing stories of his youth under his tutelage, the work he had done in Istanbul and the effect he had, _would_ have, for years to come. "I think..." Yusuf said, "I think who we are is defined by what we do, not what caused us to do them. You were cut to the quick, _evet_ , but what you did with it afterwards is commendable. You prevented your benefactor, Lorenzo, from dying; you routed out the conspirators, you tried to save one _Doge_ and dethroned another; you put the Borgias to pasture; you gave dozens, even hundreds of men and women a way to be equal amongst each other and express their dissatisfaction at the world constructively; you helped Corombo discover a new world, you saved men from being killed in the Inquisition, you had a direct hand in Meryem's life and many others. Even now, in pain as you are, lost as you are, you still take the time to help a bedraggled _suikastchi_ like myself. All because of the tragedy that occurred in your life. In that, at least, you should take some pride."

Ezio's eyes were still burning. He was certain it was the poor light and the fire smoke, and he wiped them clean. " _Grazie,_ " he said softly. " _Molto grazie, mio caro fratello._ "

Yusuf grinned awkwardly. "You do realize I have no idea what you said, _evet_?"

The pair chuckled, and Ezio explained.

The next day Ezio woke from a deep sleep, and he felt refreshed for the first time in weeks. Relieved that the period of mourning had (mostly) passed, he began his study of the key. Sitting down once more in front of the incomplete painting, he held the disc and focused his mind, thinking about Altaïr and the message he was trying to pass on. He began to hear the whispered of Arabic, and this time he didn't resist, instead let himself be swept away in the sights and sounds and smel _ls and memories..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, what to say about this chapter. By this point I can't tell if it's us or the franchise that makes the Assassin's Creed take on religious qualities; between Ezio's spiritual journey to becoming an assassin when he found tombs in Italia to the spiritual quest here to find meaning in life, to the philosophical discoveries of the creed itself, it always pulls at our minds in a certain way that we love playing with, and in that respect a lot of this chapter kind of wrote itself.
> 
> We also have the added bonus of L, our islam beta, who was kind enough to explain prayers over and over and over again until we got the scene in Hagia Sophia right in tone and mentality. As said in other author's notes, praying in islam takes on a beautifully musical quality, and even as ignorant Christians who have no idea what's being said we can watch videos of they're prayers and be swept away by the sounds and tones of the rakkats.
> 
> But really, this chapter is about Yusuf. As stated previously, we've bent over backwards to make his character as full and developed as possible, given what happens in the game, and it was important to make him take an active part in the world. Here, we see him start to pay back his perceived debt to Ezio, he explains the lengths he goes to to look out for Ezio, he shares a deeply personal worry with him, and he once again does everything in his power to pull Ezio out of his depression. Even though he's funny and affable that doesn't mean he can't be deep and even broody, and it was important for both of us to show how many levels he has. The same for Sofia in the previous chapter, and Suleiman and, well, everyone else.
> 
> Also, Sotiris gets both of his master assassin missions in one fell swoop; it made no sense otherwise. It feels rushed as a result, but there's only so much we can do...
> 
> Muslim Lesson: By this point you must have noticed the use of Allah in normal conversation. This is because several arabic phrases have bled into Islamic culture. For example, when a body sets out to do something or makes a promise, they will start by saying, "inshallah," or, "Allah willing." Similarly, when starting to do something, one might say, "Bisimillah," or, "in the name of Allah."
> 
> To thank a Muslim one might say, "Jazakallah khayr," literally, "May Allah reward you with goodness." If this happens a person replies with "Wa iyyaka," or if they're formal, "Jazakallah khayr khateera." Roughly, the two phrases translate to "and you, too," and, "May Allah reward you with abundant goodness," i.e. replying to thanks with bigger thanks. This is part of Hadith.
> 
> Given that the majority of the fic is in Turkish, but also Italian and Greek, not including Arabic with Altair, we didn't even try to keep these in their original language even though "polite speech" is one of our rules for keeping foreign language intact in the fic. Our heads were kind of spinning already, and so we kept the phrases in English.
> 
> Next chapter: as a homework assignment, readers may want to reread the last chapter of the AC1 novelization to remember Altair's headspace. We did. Only good things came of us. :P


	10. A Divided Order

_ When,  _should _ , passion ever overtake reason? Al Mualim would say never; he held to cold, calculated logic until the bitter end. Or, at least, he thought he did, but I have come to believe that his final actions were out of passion instead of logic. He felt so strongly that the Crusades were wrong, and it was his desperation to end them that created the conflict that was ultimately his undoing. He predicted that the day would come that I regret the life I lead, and that was the first sign that his passion had overtaken him. _

_As for me, Adha had been my passion, and when she was swept away I was bereft, and in that grief I changed into the very thing I fought against: a man who believed himself to be above others. I was a man who held unflinchingly to logic, and confidence was poisoned into arrogance, results overrode means, and all others were to bow to the wisdom I thought I had. I had taken the Creed I had learned as a child and twisted it into something ugly, something unenlightened, something profane._

_It was only through the passion of others that I learned, and it is because of that I believe that passion can and sometimes must overtake reason._

_… Within reason. It is a contradiction that men better than I can resolve. For others, however, passion leads to ugly things. And this, like so many other things in my life, I learned the hard way._

* * *

"You held fire in your hand, old man. It should have been destroyed." Altaïr looked down at his master, his teacher, his father, his compass, his Mentor. Al Mualim had betrayed everything that had been held dear. Altaïr's painful summer of redemption, his time spent learning what the Creed truly meant after his catastrophic betrayal of it at Solomon's Temple, had been little more than a ruse, a means to kill the other Templars that Al Mualim had allied with in order to take the treasure for himself. And what sins he created with the treasure! To control the entire mountain, to rob all of the free will that made men _men_. However badly Altaïr's mistakes had cost him, had cost the Order, they _paled_ in comparison to what Al Mualim had done.

The Apple of Discord had no place in the hands of men, it had no place with people as fallible as Altaïr, as Al Mualim, as anyone who saw the temptation given form and tried to use it for selfish reasons. Even _selfless_ reasons led to ruin. The Apple needed to be destroyed.

His teacher smiled, somewhat sadly. "Destroy the only thing capable of ending the Crusades and creating true peace? Never."

So even now, dying, he still betrayed the Creed.

"Then I will," Altaïr vowed.

"... We'll see about that."

Altaïr set his master down, gently in honor of the memories of what he once was, in honor of what he stood for before it was all destroyed. The fight had been brutal; he still suffered the broken fingers from his first failed attempt to kill Robert de Sable, and the stab wound he had received from Stephan – controlled by the Master – before Altaïr had been forced to kill him. The body count for this would be staggering, there was so much to do. Where was Malik? Or Jabal? Had their separate assaults worked, or was the Order still enthralled by the Apple? Was his master really dead? Altaïr had killed him several times in the fight... the illusions of the Piece of Eden were powerful, even overpowering, until the eagle in his mind had at last won out. He crossed the tiles, to the corner where the silver globe lay. Harmless.

Though dead, he could still hear his Master's voice.

 _"I have applied my heart to know wisdom; and to know madness and folly. I perceive that this also was a chasing of the wind."_ To Altaïr's surprise, the little silver ball began to glow, despite no hand holding it. Soft light emanated from it, and Altaïr once more felt the pressure in his mind, the whispering. _"For in much wisdom, there is much grief. And he who increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow..."_

His feet slowed of their own volition; Altaïr came to a stop as the treasure emitted a stronger glow, a golden globe of light appearing above it, the globe outlined in odd shapes, spinning slowly. Dots of light flickered at certain locations, and Altaïr watched, transfixed. His eyes locked onto the Palestinian coast, and he realized what he was looking at. It was the earth! But, there were three, no, four extra landmasses, and what did the lights signify? One was in Jerusalem, another in Giza, one in England, and so many others...

 _"Destroy it!"_ Al Mualim's voice whispered, sounding only a breath away from his ear. _"Destroy it as you said you would."_

Altaïr fought his body, tried to bend down, extend his hidden blade, draw his short sword, something, but his body was still as he was filled with awe. The whispers became louder; he could make out dissonant words, names, faces, places, events, people, time, _prophecy_. His breath caught, and he tried again.

"I... I can't..."

 _"Yes, you can Altaïr,"_ his old master said, sounding somehow sad. _"But you won't."_

"Altaïr!"

The master assassin could hear, faintly, the voice of his best friend. He turned to see Malik, flanked with two journeymen running up to him, all three staring at the dimensional picture of the earth.

"Malik," Altaïr whispered. His voice was tight; breathing was becoming difficult, all his wounds hurt. "Do you see this?"

"I... I do. What is it? What does it mean?"

All of them beheld the globe, and Altaïr thought he heard, somewhere whispered in his mind, _This is not for you. It is for they who will watch._

Altaïr looked down to see blood staining his robes; his stab wound bleeding. Had it been open this whole time? When had...

He collapsed.

"Altaïr!"

Darkness flooded his vision, hearing fell away, and all that surrounded him was black. He felt somewhat like he had when Al Mualim had killed him the first time... Only no, that must have been an illusion from the treasure, proof of the man's sins even as early as then. Altaïr reflected on that pain, the sense of lifeblood oozing out of him, and his marvel that he awoke alive and standing in front of the Master's desk, assigned to earn back his honor with the death of nine men.

The past summer had been harrowing, emotionally as well as physically. He had ridden back and forth across the Holy Land, first as a novice and slowly working his way back up to master assassin. Altaïr had learned much: the depth of his mistakes, the price of his arrogance, the consequences of his decisions. He had nearly lost Malik forever as a friend, he _had_ lost Malik's brother Kadar – dead at Templar hands because of his actions. The Order had scorned him and spat upon him, Ibtisam had ridiculed him, Jabal was wary of him, and Malik had completely hated him. The humiliation had taught him much, had taught him more than physical ability was required to be an assassin. Humiliation brought humility, and it was through the brothers around him that he learned the true way to be an assassin. Trickery or not, Altaïr was grateful for the mission, and that made the pain of the betrayal even worse. Al Mualim had saved Altaïr's soul even as he had damned his own.

But was he really dead? Or was this another trick?

It was that uncertainty that drove him from fully falling into the depths of unconsciousness. He gasped, pain from his stab wound jerking him back to the world, and he saw Malik leaning over him, trying to staunch the bleeding.

"Malik," Altaïr asked, his soft tenor more of a grunt. "Is he dead? Is he truly dead? Or is this another illusion?"

He had to be sure. He had to be sure that monstrosity was gone for good, that he would not have to fight that battle again.

Malik must have seen something in his face, for he got up and darted over to the body, bending down and placing his ear to the mouth. Altaïr watched, still panting for air. Was he dead? _Was he dead_?

"Yes," Malik said, straightening. "He is dead."

Altaïr struggled, but eventually sat up, holding his side and pressing Malik's compress against his wound. "Cut his throat," he grunted.

"... _What?_ "

"Cut his throat," Altaïr said again, pain nearly overtaking him. He looked at Malik, at the pinned sleeve of the arm that Altaïr had reft from him, before looking him in the eye. How could he explain it? The uncertainty? "Please, Malik," he begged, "I need to be sure."

Something in his eyes must have spoken to the one-armed man, and with deft skill he pulled out a throwing knife and ran it along the two key veins on either side of the old teacher's neck. Some blood leaked out, but very little, most of it pooled by the body's head. "It's done," Malik said, slightly shocked at what he had just done.

Relief swept through the master assassin, and Altaïr slumped forward slightly, a heavy breath leaving his lungs. "I killed him four times..." he moaned, a four-fingered hand with broken fingers moving up to rub his face. "But he disappeared in light, I couldn't be sure..." Could he be sure even now...?

"You've lost a lot of blood," Malik said, kneeling by the master assassin. "You need rest. A night's sleep will help you feel convinced."

"I can't," Altaïr said, pulling his hand away to look up to Malik. "I have to be sure."

"Look, brother," Malik pressed, "After you've rested you can burn or bury or dismember the body for all I care, but you need strength first before you can do any of those things. If the old man is tricking us again, believe me, we will find out."

Altaïr eventually relented, but it only lasted for a few hours. The fight kept reliving itself in his mind, in vivid, colored detail. He remembered hanging over the tiles, compelled to stillness; he remembered Al Mualim shouting justification, fighting specters of the men he had killed, and fighting nine Al Mualims. Each had disappeared in a beam of light, and even now with a _body_ Altaïr could not be sure if this was not another trick. He sat mute as his wounds were treated, his fingers re-bandaged and his stab wound sewn shut. He was shaking, and his eagle could not stop shrieking in his mind. All of his senses were on fire, he could hear all the cries of Masyaf as they slowly awoke from their stupor. The halls of the keep were filled with horror, whispers, questions, accusations; confusion and shock rippled in massive waves and Altaïr could not tune it out. Everyone he saw his eye took in with exquisite detail, trying to determine motive, purpose, desire. His senses were overloaded with the eagle in his mind, he could still feel feathers about his fingertips, talons about his toes. Was this another trick of Al Mualim, or a sign of his over-exhausted body?

He tried to sleep, truly, he did, but his mind would not quiet, and he paced about the keep. He could see a detail digging graves. Would Al Mualim rise from it? The thought caused him irrational terror, and he fought with himself to be distracted, to be diligent, to be useful in some way. If the Master would rise again, what could he do to prevent it?

First and foremost was information. He needed the other Bureaus to understand what had happened. Malik had sent word when he had learned of the Master's betrayal, but there were other concerns as well. The Christians were still marching about, Salah ad-Din would likely be irate at his defeat in Arsuf, would there be retaliation? That was the last thing anyone needed, another battle while _this_ was going about in their own walls. There was too much to do, and no Master to give orders, the power vacuum weighed on Altaïr heavily, mixed amongst his own anxiety of the old man's death and the eagle that had yet to tire. He was spinning himself in circles, and no good could come of that. He finally made a decision, and he sought out Malik.

"Stupid novice, what are you doing?" Malik demanded in a harsh whisper, respectful of the mourning and nightmares happening around him.

"We have to tell the others," he said. His stab wound was hurting again, he was moving around too much. There was no help for it. "They need to know what's happened here."

"That can wait-"

" _No_ , it can't," the master assassin pressed. A hand went to his side, fighting the pain, but with a deep breath he straightened. "You say you sent letters everywhere. You'll likely have responses by the dozens, you need to go to Jerusalem and tell them what's happened here, find out what's going on in Damascus and Ibtisam and why he wasn't here. Al Mualim's betrayal, it will bring chaos, and we need to contain it as quickly as possible before it turns into more tragedy. Enough..." he winced, but not from physical pain, "Enough have died."

Malik took a long moment to measure Altaïr, and the master assassin let him. He would not ruin their friendship again, and frankly speaking Malik was smarter than Altaïr. Cautious and thoughtful, Malik made his moves very deliberately. Altaïr still had much to learn, and the Jerusalem _dai_ would be a great asset. That he needed a friend, too, was viciously shoved aside. He would admit no weakness. He focused on meeting Malik's gaze.

"Do nothing until I return," Malik said at last. "The old man's betrayal has hurt you most of all; you were the one who fought him. Take the time to think before you act rashly." He gave a crooked smile, "We don't want the others to find out what a novice you are."

Altaïr nodded, knowing the truth of it and missing the undertone of the words. Eventually, the exhaustion won out and he spent a few hours in bed.

Only a few hours, however, before the nightmares pulled him awake. Malik was right of course, he had been through an ordeal and Altaïr had seen how men were burdened by such tragedies. It was for times like this that the garden even existed, but Altaïr could not look at it without seeing the Master holding the treasure and binding him with but a thought. He jumped quite nearly out of his skin when he saw Al Mualim's body in the keep, laid out with the other corpses. How had it gotten there? Was another trick being played? Altaïr shook his head. This kind of uncertainty would be his undoing. He needed to be sure, he had to banish this doubt from his mind.

A thought occurred to him, and he spoke to two apprentices. He looked down at the corpse.

"Forgive me for this, Al Mualim," he said softly, "but the Apple corrupted you. And through you it would have corrupted _us_. …For us to live, you had to die. _Dane alesuf._ "

Dawn crested the mountains, but no one could find it in themselves to pray. Assassins and citizens both massed together, uncertain, confused, looking for direction.

One of the apprentices returned, staring at the body and pale. Horror was being relived in his own mind, and Altaïr realized he was not the only one who was suffering from this betrayal.

"Is it truly over?" he asked. "Is that sorcerer dead?"

Altaïr shook his head. "He was no sorcerer. Just an ordinary man in command of illusions. Have you prepared the pyre?"

"... I have," he said slowly, "but... Altaïr... some of the men, will not stand for such a thing."

No, they wouldn't. Many in the Order practiced religion: In Islam burning or desecrating the body in any way was said to be felt by the soul after death, and in Christianity burning meant a disavowal of the resurrection of the dead as Jesus had done. Altaïr had already sinned by having Malik cut the cadaver's throat, and now he was going to do something much, much worse.

He thought of how many times he had killed the Master.

It needed to be done. He would accept the consequences of his decision, but it _needed to be done._

"Let me handle it," he said with his soft tenor.

Then, carefully, he knelt down around his injuries and worked his hands under the body, pulling Al Mualim's weight into his arms and standing. His side reminded him this was foolishness, his fingers protested against the work, but this had to be done by his own hand. He had to be sure and... though he would admit it only to himself, he had to be the one to carry the Master. It was the last respect he could give the man who had been so much to him.

Calm finally began to settle over his mind. Once the body was burned, his irrational fears could be put to bed and he could focus on what mattered most: rebuilding the Order. Realizing that, he made another decision. He looked to the nervous apprentice.

"Are you fit to travel?" he asked.

"Well enough, yes."

"I asked Malik to ride to Jerusalem with the news of Al Mualim's death. Would you ride to Acre and do the same? Jabal is attending to other duties."

The apprentice seemed relieved, and he nodded. "Of course."

Outside, the village had all assembled at the training ring, and many cried out when they saw Altaïr carrying Al Mualim's body.

"What has happened?"

"How did it come to this?"

"My mind was clear but my body... It would not move."

"I saw the two of them fighting... there were flashes of light... dead men were risen..."

"Is Al Mualim the cause of this confusion?"

"Or was this an act of Allah?"

"I do not believe it..."

"Al Mualim..."

"Be calm," Altaïr said softly, his words carrying over the muted shock. "All will be explained soon."

The people followed, uncertain what else to do, and the eagle in Altaïr's minds picked up their whispers. Al Mualim was loved by more than just Altaïr; he was Al Mualim – the Mentor – with good reason; his hand was firm, strict, even cruel, but always the hand taught a lesson. Many assassins treasured the old man's wisdom, and to see the father of their Order, the man who had raised so many, dead was cause for much grief. This, too, was coupled with the few assassins Malik and Jamal had brought with them, who had witnessed the subjugation of the masses, the sting of betrayal. Some could remember, others could not, and it melted into a pit of growing fear. Altaïr hoped to quell that fear, and so he moved past them, letting them act as they would, and moved to the gate of the keep.

Abbas was there, young Halim at his elbow and trying to stop him.

"What has happened here? What are you doing?" the lion demanded.

"Forgive me, Altaïr," Halim said quickly, "He was speaking ill of you, he does not know what we know and-"

"Silence, boy," Abbas growled.

Altaïr nodded to Halim, silently communicating that he would handle this. The young journeyman nodded and went back down the mountain. The master assassin turned to his former friend.

"Our Mentor deceived us all," he said softly, shifting the dead weight in his arms. Was he really dead? "The Templars corrupted him, and he betrayed us to his ideals."

Abbas was staring at the body with a look of... Altaïr could not name the emotion. Adulation, perhaps? His head snapped up with the revelation, however, and eyed Altaïr suspiciously. "Where is your proof?" he demanded, voice low and threatening.

"... Walk with me, Abbas, and I will explain," Altaïr replied.

"And if I find your answers wanting?"

"I will talk until you are satisfied." Abbas had a strong presence in Masyaf; he had spent his entire apprenticeship here as punishment from his boyhood and had many allies on the mountain. It was during that boyhood when his friendship with Altaïr had soured to hatred, but the master assassin could not undo the past. He could, however, try to mend his ties as he had with Malik. A conclave would need to be called to decide what happened next, and Altaïr wanted as many people as possible to understand exactly what had happened so that they could make an informed decision. Abbas may decide to continue hating Altaïr, and in proof the master assassin could not bring himself to care, but he _did_ want the lion of Masyaf to do what was best for the Order, whatever that was. He would undergo the man's abuses if that end could be met. And so he began: "Do you remember the artifact we recovered from Robert de Sable in Solomon's Temple?"

"The artifact _you_ were sent to retrieve, but _others_ delivered?"

Altaïr ignored the slight. "Yes. It is a Templar tool, the Apple of Eden. It can conjure illusions and control men's minds. A deadly weapon."

"And you believe Al Mualim fell under its spell?" Abbas asked, the incredulity of his tone subtle.

"I do," Altaïr said firmly. This needed to be clear. "Yesterday he used the Apple to enslave Masyaf. You saw that for yourself. That was his doing, his trickery via use of the Apple. His goal was to create peace by subjugating the world to his will."

"I do not know _what_ I saw," Abbas growled, anger in every feature of his face. "You are asking me to believe so much. _You_ , who were demoted by Al Mualim for your heresy and _now_ you expect me to believe that he conveniently was a villain and you dispatched him? Why? Out of the goodness of your own heart? Or because you were jealous of his power? Or because you resented him for what he had done to you? Explain to me how... how... how _whatever_ it was that I saw was proof of the accusations you made."

"Listen, Abbas," Altaïr pressed. "The Apple is safe in Al Mualim's study. When I am finished with this," he nodded to the corpse in his arms, "I will show you all I know."

The men had reached the lower cliffs, the natural line between the keep and the village. The pyre was there, the second apprentice adding the last of the wood. He saw Altaïr and the corpse of the Master and he stared, face paling, before darting away.

Altaïr laid the body on the pyre, arms burning from the work, and took a breath, holding his side. Many of the village, assassin and citizen alike, watched from below, surprised to see Al Mualim's body, surprised to see it laid out on a dais of wood. Altaïr took the torch that had been set up and for a brief moment he froze. He was about to burn the body of his master, his mentor, out of fear of this being more trickery. The master assassin closed his eyes, taking the time to understand what he was doing, to recognize the heresy he was about to commit.

" _Dane alesuf,_ " he apologized.

Then he lit the fire.

Everyone below breathed a collective gasp, and Abbas wrenched the torch away from him.

"Altaïr! No!"

"I must know that he cannot return," Altaïr said, "When we fought-"

"But this is not our way!" Abbas shouted, enraged at what he had just witnessed. The fire swelled in heat, happy to consume, and the repugnant smell of cooking meat filled the air. "To burn a man's body is forbidden!"

"Defiler!" Someone cried from below. "Heathen! Infidel!"

Altaïr moved around the corpse, one eye still critically looking for signs of movement. "Hear me out," he called down to the crowd. "This body could be another one of Al Mualim's phantoms! I must be certain! We have suffered enough from his betrayal, I do not wish for more to suffer from his machinations. Too many have died because he betrayed the very Creed he taught to all of us."

"Lies!" Abbas roared, grabbing Altaïr and turning him to face the enraged lion. The eagle was still screeching at the master assassin, and he looked at Abbas and saw all the signs of an enemy. " All your life you have made a mockery of our Creed! You bend the rules to suit your whims, while belittling and humiliating those around you!" The bitter sting of truth pulsed through Altaïr; he _had_ been that way, once. But not now. "You were sent to get that damned treasure and yet failed in your mission when others succeeded at the cost of their lives! You put your tongue to Al Mualim's boot even as you held yourself above him! You lied to me when we were boys and accused my father of being anything other than a _hero_! Always you have manipulated everything around you to make yourself look better, to make those around you seem incompetent, and you lorded your supposed talent over everyone! Yet _now_ you say you've changed? _Now_ you claim you killed Al Mualim for the greater good! Sophistry! Heresy! No one can believe you!"

"Restrain him!" Someone shouted from below.

Anger flooded through Altaïr and he turned a heated gaze to the crowd, his fists clenching and bloodlust burning in him. He fought with himself to work through the reaction and release his hands.

"It's not true!" Halim said, somewhere in the crowds. "I saw him after his humiliation. He really did change for the better! And I saw what the Master had done to everyone; it was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen! Novices fought with the skill of masters, all were decrying the light, singing for Al Mualim to guide them, none were in control of their actions! Altaïr fought the Master, and the Master tried to use phantoms to intimidate, to trick. He lauded his work, saying that so long as men have free will there will be no peace, that peace needs authority – and he gloried that _he_ would be that authority! Everything Altaïr said was true!"

Murmurs rushed through the crowd, conflicted, confused.

Altaïr's eagle cried warning too late, hands were on his on his back, shoving, and he was thrown off the cliff. Shocked, Altaïr looked up to see Abbas, his eagle still reading him as an enemy, glaring down at him with utter hatred.

An assassin could jump from great heights – even higher than the lower cliffs – and land safely, but that was because an assassin prepared for it. Caught off guard as he was, Altaïr had no time to prepare his landing, and he felt his wing break upon impact. Pain exploded through his body, flaring across all the injuries he had already sustained and threatening him to once again to submit to unconsciousness. Altaïr refused, fighting his own body to get under control. A cacophony of sound was erupting around him, and he finally managed to get his talons under him. Cradling his wing, he looked up to see the people of Masyaf once more fighting each other – only this time there was no artifact to direct their minds. No, brother was fighting brother willingly, devolving into a brutal mob.

"He betrayed us!"

"No, he _saved_ us! You didn't see!"

"He was the _Master_!"

"Die!"

Assassin fought assassin, citizen fought citizen, and blood began once more to run down the mountain.

"Stop, _stop!_ " he shouted, limping forward and holding his arm. "We cannot let ourselves be divided!"

" _You_ are the one who divided us!" an assassin shouted, running at Altaïr with a naked sword. Gritting his teeth, Altaïr planted his feet and adjusted his hips. He dodged the initial thrust and grabbed the wrist holding the sword, twisting it almost to breaking and disarming the assassin. He took the sword and threw it aside. A second moved to assault him, sword swinging at his broken arm, but Altaïr's eagle announced every move before it happened, and Altaïr used his talons to trip the assassin and his feathers to dislodge the sword, casting it aside as well. He would be damned if he killed another brother.

Halim took his shoulder, covering for his broken arm as Altaïr tried to reason with the crowds.

"Please, you must calm yourselves. We need to wait for the conclave and we-"

"Defiler! Heathen! You killed the Master!"

Another sword swung at him; Halim blocked the strike but Altaïr spun around him, listening to his eagle and disarming the assassin. "There has been too much blood already!" he shouted, his soft tenor booming over the shouts and swears and clashes of swords. "Too many have already died! _Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent!_ "

The first tenet of the Creed seemed to work, several stilled slightly, as if realizing just what they were doing. Altaïr threw four more swords to the ground, his broken arm hampering everything he was doing, but at last the battle seemed to ebb. Many stood, swords lowered, looking utterly lost. Some were crying, muttering, "What am I supposed to do...?"

"What did I tell you, Altaïr?"

Everyone collectively blinked, looking up. Beyond the lower cliffs, high up on the guard tower, Abbas stood, barely visible from such a height. In his hand was-

"Abbas!" Altaïr shouted. "Stop!"

The response was filled with ridicule. "What did you _think_ would happen when you murdered our beloved Mentor?"

And, at last, Altaïr allowed his rage to overtake him. Two seasons of abuse by this man, even when he tried to be conciliatory, even when others like Zamil came to Altaïr's defense, finally bubbled up in a hateful growl of the truth. "You loved Al Mualim less than _anyone_! You blamed him for all your misfortune: our imprisonment when you tried to kill me as boys, your stay in Masyaf for your apprenticeship, even your father's suicide! If _anyone_ manipulated everything around him to look better it was you! If _anyone_ sought to make others seem incompetent it was _you_! You hated Al Mualim just as you hate me! That very hatred blinds you to the truth: your father killed himself!"

"My father was a _hero_!" Abbas shouted from on high, his voice cracking with rage. "I forbid you to lie further!"

Altaïr growled, energy filling his tired body and unable to expend it. He took a hot breath, exhaling and cursing himself for his mistake. He looked up and tried again. "This is not the time to quarrel over the past!" he shouted up to the tower. "We must decide what to do with that weapon!"

"Ha!" Abbas laughed. "Whatever this artifact is capable of, _you_ are not worthy to wield it!"

Did he really think...? Altaïr was incredulous. " _No man_ is!" he shouted back.

But it was too late, the light emanating from the treasure was growing, thin lines of light fading in and out of sight, and the bitter lion gazed into its depths, and even from this distance the eagle in Altaïr's mind knew that look: reverence. Al Mualim had looked as such whenever he spoke of the Apple. "Ahhh," he murmured, the eagle taking the whisper to his ears, "it _is_ beautiful, is it not?"

Men around Altaïr began taking a step back, the light frightening them, and Altaïr watched in horror as he realized that Abbas was about to try and use the Apple of Discord in some way. And arc of light, almost like lightning, burst from the artifact and burrowed into Abbas' head. Altaïr's eagle-like eyes saw the reverence change instantaneously to horror, and then pain, and everyone heard the cry of agony. The Apple _pulsed_ , a wave of golden light expanding outward to encompass everyone, and Abbas' horror was then known by _everyone_ , the pain throwing everyone off their feet and collapsing in cries and moans and pleas. Altaïr staggered, feeling the pulse, but the eagle in his mind protected him, and he straightened, panting and pale, as he saw others clutching their head, rocking back and forth, crying. Another pulse rocked through the mountain, and Altaïr realized he was the only one who was still standing. He had to stop this somehow.

He ran up the mountain, past the long forgotten fire that burned Al Mualim's useless corpse. Altaïr realized his fear had been misplaced, it was not the Master he should have feared, but the Apple itself. _It_ had created the illusions, and _it_ had been the source of the war they now had. Cursing, he flew up the path, broken wing pulsing at all the motion, and was knocked off his feet when another pulse from above was set off. Altaïr grunted in the waves of pain, but forced himself to get on his feet. Nothing was true, everything was permitted, and he permitted himself to _get through this travesty_ and stop his people from suffering further. His eagle curled around him, permanently awake and coursing through his body, and it responded to his silent plea.

He nearly fell against the door to the tower, two men, presumably Abbas' supporters, lay curled into balls at Altaïr's feet. He pushed against the door as another Apple pulse shook through the mountain, staggering him again. Growling at the delay, he kicked the door thrice before it collapsed to his talons, and he ran up the stairs. A third pulse rocked through his body, and a fourth as he finally, exhausted, made it to the upper reaches of the tower.

Abbas and another lay prone on the floor, the Apple glowing wildly and building itself up for another pulse of pain.

Shielding his eyes from the light, Altaïr knelt down and grabbed the little globe. Almost immediately he could hear prophecy in his mind, as he had the previous day, whispering voices anxious to speak _towers fallen end of the world pass the story to the prophet to the savior to him_ , but the light faded, as did the pressure in Altaïr's head, and at last the power subsided.

At last, there was quiet.

Belatedly, Altaïr realized he was panting. He looked down to Abbas, rocking back and forth, drool spilling from his mouth and his eyes locked on something only he could see. The resemblance to his father in his last hours was striking, and Altaïr looked away from the memory, struggling to keep himself under control. The last thing he needed was for his body to completely collapse.

"Ah..." Abbas' supporter grunted. "Is... is it over?"

"F-forgive me..."Abbas said, the lion utterly passive, still staring at nothing. "I did not know..."

Such damage from the Piece of Eden; Al Mualim had used it to control the mountain, Abbas to inflict his pain on the masses, de Sable would have used it to rule the world. The danger was obvious to any who saw what had happened. But Altaïr looked down at the little silver ball, its grooves and its sensations. What did it mean, pass on the story? Did it have a purpose? Was it self-aware? Did it understand what it was to do?

"... Have you anything to teach us?" he asked, "Or will you lead us all to ruin?"

And what should he do with it?

* * *

_It was my passion for those around me that bade me kill my Master, and my passion for them that bade me stop Abbas. Should I have listened to logic, Abbas would have been killed on the spot for what he had done, for what he had inflicted on those around him. But I heard his plea for forgiveness, I saw his sorrow, and my passion took me again. There had been so much death already. Over those two days our numbers were reduced by over a third, and we could ill afford further dissent. We had been broken, all of us, and we needed to heal together or there would be no healing at all._

_Malik scolded me most severely for this choice, but even now, after the ultimate consequences of that decision lay at my feet, I stand by it. I am sorry, Maria..._

_It was during the conclave that it was decided I would be the new Al Mualim, the new Mentor. I named Malik as my second and we spent the winter trying to heal the damage that had been done. Many saw that I was in the right, but many more remembered my arrogance of before, my mistakes that had cost the Order so dearly. Such was their right, and I could not speak against it; what I did not realize was how deeply that pain had entered others. Had entered Abbas. He was never the same; my eagle had forever marked him as an enemy, but my pity for him prevented me from doing what was logical._

_For the Apple, it, too, should have been logical. After the devastation it had wrought there was no questioning it was a weapon of mass destruction, capable of horrors untold. But every time I held the artifact, its whispers spoke of stories, of prophecy, of wisdom that even the Master could not perceive, and somehow I could never bring myself to destroy it. It was but a tool, after all, and a hammer can build a house even as it kills a man. I sought to learn its purpose._

_Perhaps if I had destroyed it, I would have been saved the grief it brought me._

* * *

Ezio blinked, the vision fading from his mind, and he let out a long, heavy breath.

Altaïr, barely twenty-six and already grandmaster in command of a divided Order. How did one cope with such responsibility? And unlimited power? Ezio at twenty-six was studying under Antonio in Venezia, trying to help the thief assault the Barbarigo mansion and kill off the mercantile family before it squeezed the very life out of the floating city. He wasn't even an _assassin_ yet, and yet Altaïr had accomplished so much, if the key was accurate, in just two seasons! He was at the Battle of Arsuf that ended the Third Crusade, he killed Robert de Sable and spoke with King Richard himself. He had lived key events in history, while Ezio seemed to always be chasing after his family's killers.

He looked up to the painting, to his father's incomplete face.

There had been many times in his life where Ezio's passion had overtaken his reason, the mistakes that followed had always cost him dearly; most notably when he let Rodrigo Borgia live. He understood what Altaïr was trying to say; it was that which took him twenty years to learn. It was not until Monteriggioni was attacked, when he had nothing and was forced to build something in order to survive, that he learned about emotion tempered by reason. Altaïr's emotions the night after killing Al Mualim, the fear and uncertainty, the desperate need to try and right the wrong, Ezio had felt all of it after Monteriggioni fell. _Zio_ Mario had died, his home broken about his ears, all the certainty he took in the world lost to cannons and bitter savagery. Mario had been Ezio's second father, and he knew all too well the pain of losing a father. Altaïr was remarkable that he was able to compartmentalize as quickly as he did, Ezio had taken weeks to pull himself together.

But he had learned.

He did not understand, however, why Altaïr had shown the confrontation with the man, Abbas. What did that mean? What was the significance? Would another key reveal the mystery?

The story Altaïr was trying to tell, how long would it take to tell?

What was the final lesson he would imbue to the bearers of the key?

Ezio couldn't even hazard a guess.

* * *

Desmond blinked, finding himself back on the island and letting out a heavy breath. _Damn_ but December sucked for Ezio. And after being behind his ancestor's shoulder for thirty-five years, he understood all too well. He sat down with a thud, just working through the feelings. Desmond was pretty certain that Ezio was currently suffering depression, whether clinical or not, who knew, but he just kept pushing on. He admired that. But the depression kept eating away and Desmond was going through his own mourning process that was eating away at him. It was like he was disappearing from two directions, Ezio and... Lucy.

And, alone in the Animus, where none could see or hear him, Desmond let himself cry. He broke down into sobs as sorrow swelled. He had lost so much. So _damn_ much, and what hurt the most, what was ripping away his essence as he reflected on his life, was that he _threw so much of it away himself_.

He had wanted out. He had wanted his own life. To live his own way.

God he'd only been sixteen, and too damn stupid.

He threw away the Assassins to bury himself in normalcy. But even in normalcy, he still wasn't normal. He lived alone, hacked when he needed obscurity, switched identities twice before being captured, and never interacted with anyone.

He had segregated himself.

He had thrown away the only family he'd ever had.

And all he'd had was a normalcy that wasn't normal at all.

What a fool.

Lucy had been more real to him than anything else he'd experienced since leaving. Kind, caring, and _in the know_ so that he could relax and share more than he ever could when burying himself in sameness. She was his anchor, his support. So were Rebecca and Shaun, but Lucy had been by his side first.

And she was dead.

By his own hand.

Desmond took a deep breath as his sobs finally faded, and scratched at the tear stains on his cheeks.

This wasn't helping.

"You know, I infiltrated Abstergo before I was chosen as a Subject?"

Desmond whirled around, surprised to see Clay standing there, back to Desmond as the blond stood on a rock staring down to the ground.

"Sorry?"

"I snuck into their offices as an engineer checking wiring. Nothing major. I _was_ in engineering school."

Clay continued to stare down at the ground, only a foot away from him, with piercing intensity, like he was looking through it, beyond it.

"I was to find Rikken's computer for your dad. He needed more data about 'a program called the Animus Project'. Nearly got caught too, alarms ringing everywhere as I just blended in with all the other visitors, got checked over, and left. Never thought to check my tools. That was the most alive I'd ever been."

Desmond looked away, staring down at his hands. His life, by comparison, had been dull. No excitement, no adventure, and he had _wanted_ dullness. "I'm not that sure my life was that alive," he replied softly. "When I was sixteen I was arguing with my father. Again." Desmond sighed, rubbing at his face. "I don't even remember what it was about. But I wanted... to make my own choices. The Farm _felt_ like a prison. Looking back, it wasn't. It was training and discipline. It was needed for anyone who fought. But I couldn't see it. I just saw no choice. Go do this, go run that. In that argument I must have said something, because for the first time ever in my life, my father hit me."

Clay stopped staring through the ground and turned. "Huh," he said. "Never figured William as the abusive type."

"He wasn't," Desmond shook his head. "It was the only time he ever did, but it _was_ the last straw. When I realized I was alone and ran, it felt so freeing. I suppose _that_ was the most alive I'd felt before all of..." he gestured around, "this. Where was I going? No idea. Just _away_. That's it. That was the plan. Not much of one." Desmond sighed. "They never guessed what I was doing, because _I_ didn't know what I was doing. I just walked right out. Someone realized I was gone. They shouted. I started running."

"My shrink would have loved talking to you."

Desmond glanced up, incredulous. "You had a shrink? Before or after the Animus splattered your identity around the place?"

Clay actually smiled at that, a smile that was a little too wide and with a little too much sparkle. "Had an incident with a coworker. It didn't end well with me and I decided to see someone to work out what made me so angry all the time."

"Living memories not your own?" Desmond smiled.

"Wiseass," Clay replied, but his smile was more ironic. "More like daddy issues."

"Oh, _that_ I can relate to."

"Really? I never would have guessed."

Both Desmond and Clay chuckled.

_Desmond! Desmond!_

"I remember my mother calling out," Desmond looked down again. "Begging me to stay. But I just ran and ran and _ran_. All that training was finally worth something. They couldn't keep up." He sighed. "God, it was so dark when I left. And the forest... endless. I didn't _dare_ take the roads. Just followed the hills down. Down until I hit a stream." He had followed that to a river, and from the river to an old access road. He still remembered the summer sun, always warm. Not hot as Altaïr remembered the summer, or humid as Ezio remembered it in Venice or Istanbul. Just warm in the mountains. He had walked and walked for hours until he found a clearing after dark. Fallen asleep under the stars.

"I've never had a quieter night. Not before," with Assassins always patrolling and wandering about, "not since," with the hustle and bustle of people in towns or cities. "I walked a _long_ time. My training had left me too scared to hitch a ride. What if it was an Assassin and they took me back? What if it was Templar, skeptical as I was, and they wanted to use me? So I kept walking, lost in the badlands for a day." Desmond gave a harsh laugh. "Felt like a week. An endless ocean of wrinkled earth. Can't believe a place looked so dead."

 _I'm gonna die, aren't I? I'm gonna die here._ Desmond had had no clue how he was going to survive. He hadn't planned or taken anything with him. He had drunk his fill of water at the river, but with no food as he wandered that old, almost abandoned road, he wondered if he would die.

"Your dad was pleased with the info I'd brought him," Clay was staring down again, looking at something that Desmond couldn't see, in a vision of this place that Desmond didn't know. "A quarter of the Abstergo R & D budget of $960 million. Two-hundred-forty million bucks on the Animus. Yearly." Clay crouched down to stare at something. "Your dad was impressed. Dug in and was astonished by the amount spent on the Animus since the eighties. He wanted to go deeper. Find out what Abstergo was really looking for inside our DNA. I was thrilled."

Desmond shook his head. "You said you had father issues?"

"Never could please the old man," Clay said, still crouched and staring down, down, down, into the sand a foot away from him. "Don't get me wrong, he raised me right, only ever wanted the best from and for me. But 'Kaczmareks build things, they don't sit at a desk,' and all that."

"The Assassins offered acceptance," Desmond guessed, remembering Ezio's recruitment of so many who were alone and disenfranchised, and giving them a place to thrive.

"Look who's shrink of the day," Clay replied, his voice sarcastic and almost accusatory. Desmond held up his hands in non-aggression. Clay just shook his head. "At least I _mattered_."

Whether Clay was trying to convince himself or slight Desmond, he wasn't sure. Either way, Desmond changed topic.

"Finally met some girls from Illinois. So bubbly. So kind," Desmond shook his head ruefully. "So innocent, too. Didn't know a thing about the secret war or the dangers out there. Just out touring colleges. One day drive to Omaha. Another to Chicago." Desmond had stayed in the Windy City for almost a year. He easily passed as eighteen, and was able to find where to get a fake ID. He got along decently until he heard a threat directed at him so coldly he knew it was time to go. "Someone said to me, 'If you got nothing, you go to New York. That way, if you leave with nothing, people don't ask why. And if you leave with something, you are one lucky son of a bitch.' It was as good advice as any," Desmond said.

"So that's where I went. New York City. Into skyscrapers and subways. Into filth and folly. Into the maddening crowds."

Something made Desmond look up, and Clay just glanced at the sky, smiled, spread his arms, and fell forward, dispersing into light.

Sigh.

Of course Clay would come and go at will. Finally, Desmond looked up to the sky. He blinked, surprised. Were there more of the solid unnaturally cut rocks in the sky? They seemed to be converging since the last time he'd seen them. But they just hung there.

Desmond shook his head. Taking a trip down memory lane wouldn't do any good. He rubbed the last of the tear tracks from his mourning and stood.

* * *

With the cold days of January beginning, Ezio shook off the last of his melancholy, as he always did. There was a letter from Federica that he hadn't read yet as he'd kept busy, and he finally sat down with it on cold night to see what his niece had to say.

Once he was done, he read it again, just to be certain he'd read it correctly.

Then he growled and started swearing viciously.

Federica, who would be twenty three this year, was _pregnant_. By _Concetto_ , a recruit of the Assassins. And they _didn't want to marry_.

Ezio raged in his room for almost an hour, fuming and plotting how he'd kill this young upstart for impregnating his beloved niece, before the news sunk in more thoroughly.

Ezio was going to be a _grand-_ uncle.

He sat down heavily.

A _grand-uncle_. He was old enough to be a grandfather.

Ezio gave up for the day, got a bottle of wine, and just stayed inside.

The following day Ezio was still steadfastly ignoring just how old he was and how old he was truly starting to feel. Instead, he went to check in on the various Assassins of Istanbul he worried over. Obelius was still grumpy, but under Mazhar's strict instructions and the even _stricter_ instructions of Obelius's local doctor, was starting to get back in shape after his most grievous wound. Sotiris was still doting affectionately on his daughter, almost to the disapproval of an average Muslim. Meryem was more sure of herself and less sad now that Lysistrata was no longer alive.

Kasim, however, still bore a haunted look to his eyes.

Ezio sighed, seeing that. It was clear that Kasim was aware of his mistake and meditating on it, but he had yet to do anything about it. Looking out to the cold rain that was mixed with snow, Ezio shook his head and walked to the despondent Assassin.

"Cyril of Rhodes remains a danger to the city," he said without preamble, getting briskly to the point. "Do you know why?"

Kasim's head lowered even further. "I was over-eager, _Usta_."

"You were _hasty_ ," Ezio corrected, softening the wording, "thinking only of the kill and not the approach."

"I _can_ correct my mistake, _Usta_ ," Kasim said softly, standing. "Word has reached us that Cyril has been spotted again in the city."

"Good. We will follow his trail together."

"... _Guzel_."

They went out to the streets in the cold and Ezio wrapped his cloak a little tighter. His bones weren't liking this weather, nor the major scar about his bad shoulder.

"Now, were do we start, Kasim?"

The young Assassin paused. " _Usta_?"

"You were hasty and didn't think. Now is a chance to do so."

Kasim paused, crossing his arms. "The other deacon? The one you spoke with?"

"Very good," Ezio nodded in approval. "He seemed well connected and knowledgeable. If he's heard of Cyril's return, he can guide us to where to look. Assuming you know which church is his."

Kasim nodded, taking off with more confidence. The streets got slick as the rain thickened to a heavy fat snow that stuck to everything and anything. Many out on the streets would slide, tumbling down and taking others with them. Ezio didn't dare go to the roofs with weather such as this. He was incredibly glad that Italia rarely ever saw this weather, particularly in Firenze and Roma. He didn't care to think how he would have liked it if he had to deal with snow every year.

The Orthodox millet was bustling with activity, people flitting about and carrying candles, foods, and other items of preparation.

"What are they _doing_?" Kasim murmured, looking at the hustle and bustle with some confusion.

"Today is a day of celebration."

"It is?"

"The Feast of the Epiphany," Ezio explained. "Theopany. It is a Christian holiday of importance. When the three Magi arrived to give gold, frankincense, and myr to the baby Jesus and Jesus was baptized."

"So Christians feast," Kasim nodded.

"Mostly. The priests and deacons will be busy," Ezio replied. "First they will perform the great Blessing of the Waters. Everyone will go to the nearest body of water, the Lycus, and cast a cross into it." Ezio paused. "I wonder if any will swim in this weather for the cross so as to get a special blessing."

" _Swim_?" Kasim said incredulously. "In _this_ weather?"

Ezio shrugged. "Italia is a warmer place in the winter than this. After the Blessing of Waters will be the House Blessings for every parishioner with the water from the Blessing of Waters. Then comes eight days of feasting."

" _Eight_ days?" the Turkish Assassin shook his head. "Islams fast for Ramadan and Christians feast. Religions are very strange."

Ezio chuckled as Kasim continued to lead the way. The Orthodox church they came to was of moderate size, and a quick asking around showed that the deacon they were looking for, the kindly old man who had chatted with them, described Cyril of Rhodes, and recognized them as Assassins, was on his way to the Lycus River for the Blessing.

"We can find him if we hurry," Kasim said, taking off down the streets. They were careful to stay near the side of the streets were fewer people traversed the sticking snow, making for less chances of slipping as they traced the easiest path for an old man to head to the river.

They were crossing a small bridge when the crowds around them thickened with tears instead of the joys of the holy day.

Frowning severely, Ezio gently pushed through the crowd and found what he didn't want.

"What is all this?" Kasim asked, behind Ezio and unable to see.

"The body of the holy man who gave us Cyril's name," Ezio said softly.

Kasim spat. "That deacon is trying to clear his trail."

"But not quickly enough," Ezio said, fading back into the crowds. "That is a fresh kill. The holy man must have spotted Cyril and if Cyril is in the city, then he will be after the Patriarch."

" _Evet_. And I know where his church is."

"And his procession?"

"Will not be hard to find."

They took off again into the snowy streets. An hour later, the snow had stopped, leaving a slushy slick mess on the streets, and as the day continued to warm, fog started to settle in, cutting visibility down, though that did not affect much in the crowded narrow streets. They had found the Patriarch's procession, which had finished the Blessing of the Waters and who was now going from house to house for his parishioners, doing short prayer services and then entering the home to bless it with the water from the earlier Blessing.

"An easy target," Ezio frowned. He narrowed his eyes searching, but his eagle did not cry out any warnings. "What do we do?" he asked.

Kasim stiffened, but started looking around. "Ask the procession. Find out which homes he's to go to next and check before he arrives."

"Then do so."

"Right away, _Usta_."

The afternoon was spent going from house to house, checking in and around until the Patriarch arrived and, as the Orthodox holy man started his prayers, finding out the next home and checking in.

"There," Ezio murmured, gesturing. "The deacon Cyril of Rhodes."

The thorough description from the dead holy man proved as detailed and accurate as it had the first time they had hunted this Templar. The deacon was kneeling by a house, in prayer, appearing to be doing his own blessing, when he was really waiting for the Patriarch to come by.

"It is unwise to kill a man in plain sight," Ezio said, leaving the previous and disastrously visible attempt unsaid. "What do you propose?"

Before he had even finished speaking, Kasim was laying out a plan. "I will create a diversion. If he gives chase, you follow."

"Do it."

Kasim stalked forward in the fog and conveniently slipped in the slush lining the streets, barreling in to the Templar. With many shouted apologies he stood, dusted himself off and strutted away, clear as day smug with himself.

The strutting walk left the deacon quickly checking his pockets. "Thief!" he cried, scrambling to his feet. "You'll not get away! Guard! You cannot escape!"

It was a three man chase. Kasim sped along the slick streets, not going anywhere near his top speed and remaining just within sight. Following was Cyril, shouting curses and epitaphs that had many mothers covering the ears of their children. And ghosting behind the two of them, jogging from crowd to crowd in the cold streets, was Ezio. Cyril didn't seem to notice that he'd been led into a trap and was content to shout at the indignity of getting robbed as Kasim led them further and further from the Patriarch's planned trail and to more and more secluded areas.

Finally, Kasim came to a stop on a high landing with yet another breathtaking view of the fogged city. Kasim turned, allowing himself to be seen properly instead of ducking corners or alleys.

" _Suikastchi_!" Cyril spat, his voice high in rage and indignation. "I should have known you brutes were behind this."

"Who else, deacon?" Kasim replied with a mocking bow.

"You are meddling in affairs _far_ outside your understanding," Cyril growled as he lunged forward, his hidden dagger in hand. "Go hide in your haystacks!"

Kasim dodged elegantly, always staying one step ahead and letting Cyril get more and more frustrated. "A pity you Assassins work alone," the former deacon growled, attempting to taunt when he could not strike. "It will take longer to kill you all."

Ezio held back, letting Kasim handle this and staying in reserve.

The young Assassin was able to stab Cyril in the arm, but overbalanced in the process, slipping in the slush and landing hard on his side.

Cyril was quick to pin him, using his own height and weight to his advantage and Ezio started to step forward.

"So what happens now," Cyril gloated, "Assass—in."

The deacon coughed, Kasim's hidden blade deep in a lung.

Kasim pushed Cyril off of him, then sat by his side, studying. Ezio stood behind his Assassin, and simply observed.

"I offer you last words," Kasim said softly, with a bow of his head.

"What do you hope to hear, Assassin?" the deacon coughed. "That I regret my associations? Never." He turned and coughed blood into the slush. "Rome abandoned us in our time of need. The west turned a blind eye to the Ottoman Juggernaut." He coughed again. "Is it any wonder... that I should turn to a man with more honor... more courage... and more vision?" Cyril started to fall limp. "I regret nothing."

" _Huzur ichinde yastin_ ," Kasim reached out and closed the deacon's eyes.

Ezio let the moment settle, the weight enveloping them in the fog.

"Come. Let's go get warm."

" _Evet._ "

Kasim still bore the slightly haunted look to his eyes. There would be no way for him to forget that he had killed an innocent deacon in his zeal and haste, but, though Ezio never wished for anyone to learn such a lesson in such a difficult way, he believed that the horrible mistake haunting Kasim would keep him from leaning to arrogance again. Yusuf agreed solemnly as he gave a _hookah_ to the young Assassin to now meditate on his success, naming him the final den leader.

"I don't like how many seemingly independent Templars are running through the city," Ezio said softly as they walked down the streets of the Constantine district. "It makes for too many convenient coincidences. There must be a thread holding them all together."

"I agree," Yusuf replied, his usual jovial tone subdued. "And where are they getting the money to _still_ be bribing heralds?"

"A very good question. I wish I knew."

They continued walking. Yusuf had another meeting with Kizzy, this time about some novices who were acting highly inappropriately, that Yusuf was going to discipline thoroughly, before he headed off to meet with Hayri the thief about finding out where said money was coming from.

As they neared the Romani camp, Ezio spied Fusun stalking the streets in her Assassin garb. The three met, Fusun surprised to see the two of them.

"Good news," she reported grimly.

" _Evet?_ " Yusuf asked, his face once more grinning. "Something must be good if you're smiling so."

Fusun's scowl deepened in annoyance.

"Mirela was spotted here moments ago. I was following the direction she was last seen going when you two old men decided to interrupt me."

"Mirela? Here?" Yusuf's grin disappeared. "Ezio, I leave this to you. I must make sure Kizzy doesn't find out and do something rash."

Ezio nodded and let the Master Assassin disappear into the crowds. "What was Mirela doing?"

"She was purchasing various reagents and oils," Fusun replied. "Will we stand and talk all day or shall we get moving?"

"A moment," Ezio stood firm. "What, precisely, was she buying?"

"Walnut oil," Ezio doubted that this trickster was painting, "cardamom," an herb for digestion?, "datura..."

"Datura?" frowning, Ezio was starting to see a picture. Walnut oil used for coloring like a painter would, cardamom to ensure absorption after being eaten, and datura for the final stroke. "Datura is a deadly poison, made from a flowering plant. She's going to lace someone's food."

"Then we must get _going_ ," Fusun insisted.

But still Ezio stayed firm. "Is there anyone in the area that she might be after? Anyone who's been outstanding in pursuing her, discrediting her, anything?"

Fusun was still glaring sourly, but as Ezio continued listing possibilities, her eyes went wide. "That Ottoman guard of yours from when we first confronted that trickster," she said. "He's been after her ever since, like she is a personal affront to his honor. He always checks with the Romani to see if she's been spotted, almost weekly."

"Then we know where she's going."

" _Bok_ ," Fusun swore, turning and heading in the opposite direction of what she'd been following. "That guard is known to have his _Dzhur_ prayers in one particular mosque!"

The two of them raced through the streets, quickly getting up to the roofs. The mosque was right on the boarder of the Orthodox millet, and already the _athan_ could be heard echoing from the minaret, asking for people to come and pray. They had ten minutes at most as the faithful began to gather to together, congregate before the _bilal_ gave the second call: the _iqamah_ that would announce prayer would begin. They paused on the roof, tension mounting. "Do you see Mirela?" Ezio demanded, eyes scanning the crowds, eagle alert. "Do you see-"

"There he is," Fusun hissed, already climbing back down a ladder. Ezio followed. The crowd was thickening as more people came to the prayers, and Ezio and Fusun tried to hurry without being obvious. The Ottoman guard was lacking his armor, clearly off duty, but still walked with the self-importance of an official. He was chatting and chuckling with a few men, likely friends or co-workers, unknowing of the danger that was currently stalking him.

Fusun reached him first and gave a polite bow. " _Efendim_ ," she said in far more polite tones than she usually used. "Your life is in danger."

"What joke is this?" the Ottoman laughed. "It's not particularly funny. Be on your way."

"She does not lie," Ezio said, shifting his stance as he approached to the noble-born gate he'd used so long ago. "The killer you've been hunting since October is now hunting you."

"What are you-" the Ottoman's eyes widened as he once again recognized Ezio.

"Your diligence and justness have tightened a net around the killer," Ezio continued, "and she is so cornered that now she seeks to hunt _you_."

"Necdet," one of the Ottoman's friends asked, confused, "what are they talking about?"

The guard didn't reply, his face slipping into a cold mask. "I will pray later," he said firmly. "Go on. This, I must handle."

The friends didn't leave easily. They had questions and didn't like being dismissed. Once they were finally pushed on, Fusun and Ezio flanked the Ottoman as he headed back to the barracks to get armor.

Necdet turned down an alley as a shortcut, but Ezio's eagle screeched and he stopped them immediately. "She has been here within the past few minutes," he explained, backing them out of the alley.

"How do you know?" Fusun asked.

"The smallest traces. The scent of the poison she bought, a thread of Romani clothing." Ezio glanced at the Ottoman. "My senses are more finely tuned than most." And that was all he'd say on the matter.

"I will take to the roofs then," Fusun said, "and lay in reserve."

Necdet started swearing colorfully and took a different route. All around them the beautiful music of prayer was rising throughout the city, leaving the streets empty, making them an even easier target. A patrol of Ottoman Janissaries strode by and Necdet called out to them.

"A killer is on the loose and is tracking me," he explained.

"Ha!" one of the Janissaries laughed. "A likely story."

That was the last that that particular Janissary would ever say. Mirela appeared from an alley and Ezio whirled, taking a defensive position. But Mirela's sharp eyes noted quickly that she was outnumbered, and rather than the poison she had gathered, she threw a bomb.

The sound was deafening, and reminded Ezio of Yusuf's thunder bombs. He was knocked clear off his feet, onto Necdet behind him, but the Janissaries had taken the brunt of the explosion; and were dead or dying, their numbers and armor having protected Ezio and Necdet. Ezio's ears were ringing, and he couldn't seem to keep his balance as his entire body reminded him that being near an explosion was _never_ a good idea.

" _Dannazione_!" he swore, helping Necdet up. Mirela was approaching, a knife likely laced with poison in her hands. Ezio stumbled, his balance still feeling off.

"Slutty _whore_ ," Necdet swore loudly. "You'll not kill me!"

Damn fool!

Ezio stayed between them, pushing Necdet back since neither of them had the hearing or the balance to handle the nimble Romani.

But it didn't matter.

Fusun fell from the sky, falling on top of the shunned Romani shouting Romani curses. They wrestled, Fusun unable to get her hidden blades to bite.

With a deep breath, Ezio centered himself, reached for calm, and pulled out his poison darts. Fusun was holding Mirela, unable to kill her, but at least preventing her from doing more harm, and Ezio was able to fire.

Ezio stumbled forward as Mirela fell, Necdet behind him also tripping. The ringing in his ears was finally fading, and Mirela, glared up at them.

"So dies another wretched Romani," she grunted, "is that what you are thinking, _Suikastchi_? Maybe your heart is filled with pity for me?" she continued to struggle against the poison robbing her veins of their strength. "Then leave me be, for I _despise_ such charity. I took what was owed me... in spite of oppression, of hatred, of ignorance. I lived my own way, for myself!"

Ezio shook his head.

Fusun frowned severely. "Then die that way, by yourself," she growled. "Rest in what peace you have alone."

Doctors had been fetched, and soon all of them were taken to a local physician and the Janissaries were called to look into the death of their own.

Ezio played dumb, speaking in Italian mostly, and saying a few words as mispronounced as possible. Necdet and Fusun did most of the explaining, and Necdet quietly said that he would keep Ezio's privacy private. Fusun was looked at as a hero, holding the killer until the mad Romani had poisoned herself to prevent capture, at least until her sour attitude started irritating everyone in the room. Fusun was the only one released, having taken cover from the explosion and not harmed.

Necdet and Ezio stayed the night, and Ezio wondered if he was going to have to explain this to Suleiman or if Necdet would handle that. Indeed, with such a strong sense of justice, it might be worth approaching him and making him an Assassin, or an ally. But that would be up to Fusun as this was her den.

Ezio sighed. It has been a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too much to say about this chapter; Kasim and Fusun's stories are all tied up now, the Templar multiplayer characters are dropping like flies in that sense, and not a lot has happened on the whole conspiracy. Even Ezio is getting a little tired of not knowing who the Templar grandmaster is.
> 
> Desmond, however, got to shine a little bit, and that's always a treat. Remember back in the old days when we whined about what to do with him to make him interesting. Well, between Brotherhood and this we have no such qualms, we knew EXACTLY what to do and were refreshed every time we dropped out of Constantinople to check in on him. Clay, in case you haven't figured it out, appears at different stages of his lost archive levels, so what he sees isn't always what Desmond sees. Also, we're starting to sneak something in about the sky, but we'll hold off talking about that for a bit. And, really, this chapter is about one thing:
> 
> ALTAIR! YOU'RE BACK AGAIN! (fangasm p2) He certainly manages to steal the show whenever he appears in a chapter. Partly it's because his memories are some of the best in the game; they're short, heavy on story, and hit the high points of Altair's life. It also taps heavily on nostalgia for Altair and Masyaf, whom we haven't played for years at this point. To prepare for this chapter Image actually reread all of the AC1 novelization (god, that was years ago...) to get back into Altair's "voice". He thinks much more formally and has different habits and sentence structure than Ezio - he certainly swears a lot less - and we get to explore an idea we had but couldn't expound upon when we wrote AC1: When Altair recited the Creed to himself, that nothing was true and everything was permitted, and he permitted himself to see past the illusion, he awakened his eagle vision permanently. He doesn't quite understand that yet, but we were finally able to incorporate it. Self-gratification :P
> 
> It's easy to forget sometimes that the events of these games are traumatizing. As a gamer we're a little too busy feeling badass to realize that killing Al Mualim is actually a soul-crushing thing. Altair and many people in Masyaf suffered PTSD for that and we wanted to give a little bit of that feeling in this memory. And Abbas. So much to say about Abbas... But we'll wait until later.
> 
> Muslim Lesson: There are a lot of soundbites out there about how women are treated in Islamic culture. For example, for we Westerners, one obvious give away that someone is a Muslim is the hijab, where some idiots in the west perceive this as a means of oppression. (Yes, this is idiocy.) Women are prescribed to cover their bodies except for their faces and hands to protect their honor and to protect men from lust. This is part of the Hadith. Actually, it's only half of it: The first is for women to cover up, the second expectation is for men to avert their gaze when they see a beautiful woman, something harder for Westerners to observe.
> 
> The story is one Rasulullah and his cousin were talking to a beautiful woman; and the cousin was, er, not paying any sort of attention. Rasulullah, perturbed rightfully so by this, grabbed his cousin's face and turned it away. The story doesn't explicitly state but heavily implies that the woman was either already covered as a Muslim, or was not a Muslim and was dressed "normally"; the point being that it was the silly cousin's duty to protect her honor and his lust, i.e. it's up to both genders to protect one another. Islam, unlike Christianity, actually reveres women. While the Bible goes on and on about Eve's sin and how women are the route of all evil, Islam says that jannah, "paradise" is at the feet of a mother. Muhammed (peace be upon him) told Bilal to issue a call to prayer specifically because a woman confessed to him that her husband beat her. There is a phrase, "The best among you is the one who is best to his wife." There are a ton of famous women in the Qu'ran (check out islamswomen dot com. Fascinating reading).


	11. Becoming Intimate

Yusuf arrived, grave faced, the following day with Fusun. He spoke with the doctor as Ezio stubbornly dressed his achy body. Smoke bombs, or any of the other interesting explosives that Yusuf and the Turkish Assassins used, were always small enough in scale that he never felt the impact of the bang. That thunder bomb, by contrast, had been like a punch to the chest. No _wonder_ those Janissaries had died. Ezio stretched and did his usual exercises to prepare for the day. The limbering did help, and the tenderness lingered, but he could work. Fusun came in and started to speak softly with Necdet, and Ezio let them be.

Walking up to the harbor, Ezio let Yusuf quietly swear and curse until the air blistered. "As if Galata Tower wasn't _enough_ , you have to go get yourself blown up!" Yusuf growled. "It's a wonder that sister of yours hadn't appeared out of thin air to skewer me!"

Ezio wanted to walk about the city for the day, partially to stay limber, partially to visit Sofia, and partially to think about maybe seeing Suleiman about what had occurred to his Janissaries, but Yusuf wouldn't have any of it. He all but dragged Ezio back to the derelict mosque and demanded that Mazhar do his own examination. Ezio sighed and resigned himself to a mother-hen that was younger than him ensure he got rest after his "ordeal." He would not, however, put up with it the following day and slipped out of the hideout.

He was on his way to see Sofia, when Sila shyly approached him on the street.

" _Usta_ ," she greeted. "I am told you still have the speed and strength of a twenty year-old."

"I try to keep healthy," he replied in full Florentine irony. In light of his recent adventure, he was beginning to wonder how much longer that would last.

"I..." Sila hesitated and Ezio tried to offer a calm welcoming presence. "I have plans for a route. A running route for our den. I... would you mind looking over it with me?"

"It would be my pleasure," he replied.

Sila nodded and lead him to the school they used as a cover. Sila was a shy, skittish Assassin. Untouchable when she ran, but always so uncertain of herself. Ezio didn't know what caused her to value herself so little, and observed as she bustled about the den.

Sila was kind and patient to all of her journeymen and apprentices, but she held firm when she needed to. Now that she'd had a few months to settle in, she was starting to show confidence in running her den. Journeymen were always out on missions to learn things and apprentices were all settled into the studies they needed to keep improving. Languages and reading and writing were taught, as well as analyzing written works, excellent for quickly understanding what stolen documents might try to hide in language.

"You run a tidy den, Sila," he complimented her as she was outlining the route she was thinking of.

Sila stilled, and demurred. "I do very little, the school runs itself."

Ezio sighed.

Looking over the run she planned, he altered only small areas, pointing out alleys for hiding and practice running in cramped quarters, before he sat back. "I don't know this part of the city as well as others," he said.

Sila blinked, glanced aside shyly. "Then... how about a race? I could use the exercise."

Ezio smiled. "I'll give you a head start."

The run was exhilarating. Sila was indeed, an incredibly fast runner. But Ezio had left his armor behind and he'd been running for decades. Most Assassins struggled to keep up with him when he was in full armor. Without the armor, Ezio was untouchable. He flew along the streets, the alleys, and the roofs, Sila hard-pressed to keep up.

The run warmed him on the chilly day, and while the sun was barely visible, Ezio was pleased that he was working up a sweat. Sila somehow kept pace with him, but when he heard her stumble, he stopped, turning to help.

"You..." she panted. "I..."

"I have experience," Ezio replied. "But my endurance would not have lasted much longer."

Sila just kept gulping air and nodded. They sat on the roof, leaning against a chimney, and recovering from the run. They talked, mostly of the den, and any attempts from Ezio to try and pry into Sila's shell were deftly and politely turned away. Frustrated, Ezio just sat back for a moment.

Minutes later, Sila stilled, her hand coming to Ezio's arm as she pointed. On the roofs beyond them was a Byzantine, nimbly jogging from roof to roof. At his side was a heavy purse, the jingles audible even from this distance.

"A Byzantine tax collector," Sila whispered, lying down on the roof to hide. "He's from the millet. But why is he out here?"

"We should track him and find out."

The tax collector didn't stay on the roofs for long, but Ezio and Sila did. As they went along, one of Sila's apprentices approached, surprised to see them while he was training, and was soon tailing the tax collector from the ground while Sila and Ezio stayed to the roofs.

At last, the Byzantine arrived in a large square and Sila stiffened by Ezio's side. "That's Damat Ali _Pasha_ ," she said, gesturing. In the shadows of a wall, leaning over some spices, a tall man in blue with a well-manicured beard was haggling with a merchant. He looked to be close to Ezio's age, though still slim and fit.

And the tax collector was heading right for him.

Ezio swiftly dropped to the streets, already stalking forward, the apprentice flanking him, and Sila, he could see, was on the roofs. As the three dreaded, the Byzantine pulled something from the vizier's pouch, which Damat seemed to sense.

"Help! Thief! Don't let him get away!"

Ezio was already running, but as he had told Sila before, his endurance wasn't what it once was. He was slower than he'd been that morning, but he was able to keep a steady distance with the tax collector, following under a covered set of stairs before Sila dropped from above to kill him.

Ezio caught up, disappointed with how he was panting again after such a short race.

"He was holding this, _Usta_ ," Sila said softly, handing over a sealed document. "It must belong to Damat Ali _Pasha_." Ezio glanced at it, wondering what was so important that required such thievery, but merely pocketed it.

He turned to the apprentice who was just catching up. "You take care of this body," he said. "We will return this document."

" _Evet, Usta_ ," the apprentice bowed.

Sila kept a slower pace back to the Vizier, which Ezio was grateful for. They returned to the square to find the vizier talking with an Ottoman city guard.

"I believe this belongs to you," he said in a thickened Italian accent.

"Ah, you have my thanks," Damat bowed his head. He brushed away the Ottoman, and the guard scowled before returning to his work. "You have spared me much humiliation before the Sublime Porte," the vizier bowed again and Ezio could feel insincerity almost oozing from this man. Something was wrong. "Thank you _efendim_."

"You are welcome," Ezio replied, starting to step back.

But Damat followed, a bright, oily smile on his face. "And is this the young _Suikastchi_ who aided you today?" he looked to Sila.

Skittish as always, Sila hid behind Ezio's larger frame, staring down to the cobblestones.

"Enjoy the rest of your day," Ezio replied coldly.

The dismissal was clear, and the vizier narrowed his eyes before offering a polite smile and moving on.

Ezio and Sila were soon ducking down alleys and using every trick the two of them knew to shake anyone who was sniffing at their tail. Sila was practically shaking with fear and beside herself.

"He saw me. He _saw_ me. Does he know who I am? Have I compromised the Brotherhood?" she worried. "How did he know we are _Suikastchi_? A common official shouldn't know of us! Even if he _was_ a confidant of Sultan Bayezid many years ago."

"Be calm," Ezio counseled as they took the roofs back to Sila's school. "We will figure this out. The fact that he knew us requires an investigation."

"But _how_? I can't go out now! If he knows me I'm a burden! I've become an albatross around the neck of the Order!"

Nothing Ezio could say would console her. Finally, he sent an apprentice to fetch Yusuf as, without knowing what her issue was, Ezio couldn't not offer the reassurances she needed. Yusuf arrived an hour later, and pulled Sila to a private room to talk. Ezio and the rest of her den worried, but lessons were still taught and students managed.

It was two hours later when Yusuf finally exited, and Sila gave a brief apology to everyone for worrying them before disappearing to get some rest. Yusuf sighed heavily as they made their way back up to the hideout.

"Are you certain Sila will be a good den mother?" Ezio asked softly. He always kept his advice to Yusuf as advice, but here he wasn't sure Yusuf had made the right decision.

" _Evet_ ," Yusuf replied, "once she has healed enough from the abuses she's faced."

Ezio nodded, not daring to ask more.

"Sila... She came to us at ten years old, having run away from berating parents that had left her so convinced she was worthless, she attempted to drown herself in the Halich. My mentor found her, saved her, and took her in." Yusuf rubbed his face, and sighed again. "Once she is confident in something, once she knows something frontwards and backwards, she is fine. But surprise her with something unexpected and she will second, third, fourth-guess herself until she's convinced that she's made another grave error in judgment. Once she knows that she's a _good_ _suikastchi_. Once she knows she's _fine_ , she will be one of our best den mothers. But until she gets that confidence..."

"It's not confidence she needs," Ezio said softly. "But some anger. Anger at those who belittle her and think her worthless. Then, she can fight back."

"She's not one who naturally angers."

Ezio sighed. "Which is why this will be a difficult road for her."

Cold and cloudy, Ezio spent the next day going over the various reports and notes he had been taking on both the Janissaries and the Byzantine Templars, trying to see where one overlapped with the other. He had been putting off meeting with Suleiman again because his research had proved curiously inconclusive. Perhaps because the Borgia had already been in power and flaunted themselves, tracking who had allied with them had been relatively simple fair. Here, the Florentine could hardly understand what the Templars were even trying to accomplish. They seemed to have their hands in almost everything: searching for the Masyaf keys, of course, and undermining - outright attacking - Assassins when they could, but then they were trying to create an underground guild in the Kapalicharshi, the actress Lysistrata had been killing members of the Sublime Porte, there was the former Borgia dignitary that had arrived, stealing from the Romani, attempting to kill the Greek Patriarch, threatening printers, bribing heralds, and otherwise blatantly flaunting their presence when they were confident. Their appearance had been since the earthquake – that at least made sense since it was an opportunity, but how could they _sustain_ their presence for over two years like this? Money like that had to come from somewhere, and the Templar work in Kapalicharshi was hardly _that_ impressive.

Then, too, there was the assault on Suleiman. That the Janissary leader Tarik Barleti was not there was worth investigating, but the assessment of the Janissaries as a whole was not so cut and dry. Janissaries had been selling access to viziers of the Sublime Porte, but that seemed to be low level pocket lining. Piri seeing Janissaries and Byzantines meeting was disturbing, but again it was not at a high level. The troops themselves were unlike the mercenary armies of Italia; they were well trained and loyal to the _sultan_. Janissaries were harvested from the _devshirme_ , the practice of taking children from rural, non-Islamic families, converting them to Islam and teaching them Turkish, and training them to serve the empire in some way. Yusuf said that the practice occurred every four to five years with the idea of creating civil servants who were absolutely loyal to the empire. It worked, and Janissaries were the most disciplined, most intelligent, and most powerful force in Ottoman politics, on top of being an elite fighting force numbering around ten thousand strong. They were the first to take the recent invention of firearms and use it to military advantage. By the very structure of their discipline, corruption seemed an alien concept to most.

Frowning, Ezio rubbed his eyes and tugged slightly at his greying beard. What was he missing? Knowing more about the Janissaries showed that Tarik Barleti's absence during the prince's assault was tantamount to insurrection, where could he have _possibly_ been that was more important than protecting the royal family? None of Yusuf's assassins could find out, and the Ottoman soldiers were a tight-knit, tight-lipped bunch.

Ezio brought his concerns to Yusuf and he called an assembly of all the den and faction leaders.

" _Usta_ da Firenze has been trying to make sense of Byzantine movements," Yusuf said, the lot of them crowded around one of the hideout's fireplaces in an attempt to keep warm. "It's all very erratic, and there's the troubling events back in August with _Shehzade_ Suleiman, and the fact that the Janissary captain, Tarik Barleti, was not there. You all are well ensconced in your dens and your sections of the city by now, and I suggest we pool our information. Little mouse, we'll start with you."

Sila pressed her mouth in a thin line, nervous at going first, before she started. "Kapalicharshi is a major center," she said slowly. "Everyone... everyone wants a stake there, Janissary and Templar alike. The Byzantines seem to be trying to set up an underground guild – they were bribing Ottomans to handle the thieves so they had no competition and retain special rank. _Usta_ da Firenze handled that, but there have been other attempts since then. And... and then there are the merchants who are harassed for supporting the Ottomans. They seem to be trying to get money, as well as try and cause trouble for the Ottoman seat of power."

"That's similar to what is happening in my district," Meryem said. "Lysistrata was not the only woman trying to murder members of the Sublime Porte and-" her eyes widened for a moment. "I'll be back in an hour," she said, "I need to go back to my den and look at my lists. Now that we're talking about Janissaries and Topkapi, there might be a common thread between the victims, but I need to be sure."

Obelius blinked, as if realizing something. "The printer, the one the Templars threatened; he was critical of the Byzantines, but he wrote other political writings, too. Would that mean anything?"

"Not really," Fusun said, ever sour. "You two might have all those pretty connections to the palace, but then why did Mirela try and steal from the poor and blame the Romani? We're hated by _everyone_ , why make things worse?" She looked to Kizzy. "Did you make noise about the Ottomans?"

"Pah!" the Romani snorted, crossing her arms.

"We're connecting the wrong lines," Sotiris said slowly, leaning back and rubbing his chin. "Instead of asking where the Janissaries and the Byzantines connect, shouldn't we be asking where the Byzantines connect with Topkapi in general? The Janissaries are based in Topkapi, if they are under Templar influence, they might be doing their work with subtlety, like their masters."

"Then, there are the heralds, first," Hayri said, rubbing a temple. The thief recrossed his legs and continued, bare feet filthy. "We've all heard them talking about Stewards of Byzantium. I've been checking around, and it's not possible for _every_ herald to be that corrupt. A few I know of are upstanding to a fault – they won't even take _my_ bribes – but even they talk about 'feeling the love.' That means it has to come from Topkapi itself."

"There's also the Borgia dignitary," Piri said, his hoarse voice quiet but powerful. "Ignoring his allegiances for the moment, he was _invited_ by Topkapi, and we don't know who wanted to see him. It could be a Janissary, or it could be a vizier, or it could be Bayezid himself."

"Not Bayezid," Kasim said, "He's still at the north end of the Black Sea, in Crimea, hunting down Selim. The only royals at the palace are Ahmet and all the princes. And even if the Templars are making a bid for the Ottoman throne, who are they supporting? Ahmet is the favored choice, but the Janissaries want Selim, and Bayezid has no intention of giving up his throne right away. He's not _that_ old, not yet. There's also the concern about the deacon, Cyril of Rhodes." He looked down briefly, still sensitive to the mistake that had cost him so dearly. "We found a bolthole of his, and there were documents that indicated that he actually _wasn't_ working alone. Lysistrata, Dunqas, Mirela, and others are named or hinted at. Their orders come from Rhodes, just as Cyril's did."

"Now that's _very_ interesting," Yusuf said, leaning back and running a hand through his oily hair. "Are Templar headquarters there?"

"The Knights Hospitalier make their host there," Piri said, a slight grin on his face. "My uncle and I had great fun whenever we were there. Bayezid tried to take it back in '80, but they held their ground. That was my first year with my uncle, before we joined the navy."

Ezio frowned, a hint of memory not his own surfacing in his mind. "The Hospitalier and the Templars were close allies in the Third Crusade," he said slowly, "Does anyone know if they are still allies now?"

"No," Yusuf said, "but I think a few recruits might be sent over there to find out."

"No, not recruits," Sotiris said, shaking his head. "If it is a Byzantine stronghold, we want experts, and there aren't enough of us to go around for something like that."

"Maybe not in Constantinopoli," Ezio said, "but Italia might be able to spare a few men and women. I'll send a letter to Claudia and make a few suggestions. At the very least, the high-ranked Templars will be taken care of."

"That doesn't sweep away the lower ranks, though," Fusun said. "Do you have a suggestion for magicking _them_ away?"

"... I'm working on it."

Twenty minutes later Meryem returned. "I was right!" she said, skidding to a stop and spreading her documents across to all of them. "Lysistrata, her mission was very specific; every single man she seduced and killed were vocal supporters of Selim."

"Selim?" Obelius said, looking up. The teen frowned, eyes distancing as he thought back. "The printer supports Selim. He wrote a pamphlet on it. His father is a herald, he supports Selim, too."

Kasim's eyes widened. "The Patriarch, the man Cyril was trying to kill, he's a vocal supporter of Selim, too."

"So they _are_ making a bid for the throne," Azize said, quiet up to then. She started taking furious notes. "But why would they support Ahmet? He doesn't necessarily effuse their ideals. He's a philosopher more than a ruler."

"That may be why they want him," Dogan said. "He might be easier to control than Selim."

"But how do the Janissaries fit in?" Sila asked quietly. "They _support_ Selim. Loudly."

"Yes," Ezio said, "Tarik Barleti gave a very thorough analysis to Ahmet, and the _Shehzadem_ did not like it."

"You forget that they did and do meet with the Byzantines," Piri said. "Just because we broke up a meeting or two doesn't mean they aren't still being held."

"But it's always been low level," Meryem said.

"So? That they even talk to each other is telling, _hayir_?"

" _Bene_ ," Ezio said. "That's the link, then, we need to learn of a meeting between the two factions and then tail the Janissaries to see who they report to. If they go nowhere, then we pursue something else, if they pass on their meeting to a captain or sergeant, however, then we have a starting point."

Everyone departed to keep their ears to the ground and report back. Yusuf said Ezio would have the privilege of tailing, seeing as he was the one who wanted to learn about it. The Turk giggled as he said it however, and explained that he had other business to attend to. Fully a quarter of the city had been bought up with the Italian stores of money, and their first independent revenue had come in with – for Yusuf at least – shocking results. He had enough money to feed the children and novices and apprentices for two months, and enough left over to make even more purchases, and he had to do some "shopping." Ezio laughed, letting the man have his good fortune.

By the end of the week Ezio was tailing a Janissary after a back alley meeting with a pair of Byzantines. The man was making steady progress to the bazaar and, knowing many Janissaries spent what little free time they had there, pushed past his target and moved into the covered market himself. He wanted the lay of the land before picking up his tail again, and now that he thought about it, all his investigations did little to inform him how the actual citizens felt about the elite military. Several he talked to had very pointed opinions of the effect that – so long as their merchandise was imported – it was automatically confiscated. Supporting local economy was one thing, but there was such a phrase as "too much of a good thing," and many were bitterly resentful that they were so inhibited in how they could do business.

Ezio began talking to his latest merchant.

"You see this rug. Incredible quality. Your feet will love you more than your wife does."

The image of Sofia burst into his mind's eye, bright and flowery, but he put it aside for the time being. "I am not married."

"Ah, you're better off. Come, feel it!"

Ezio crouched down to inspect the wares, looking at the stall carefully. The cabinets, normally locked to hide more valuable wares, hung open and empty, and precious few carpets. "You have sold well today."

Said merchant scoffed, "I have not sold a thing! The Janissaries confiscated most of my rugs just because they were imported."

"Do you know Tarik Barleti, their captain?"

"Eh, he's around here somewhere. An arrogant man, but–" the man paled, cutting off in mid-sentence. Ezio turned to see the very people they were speaking of walking by in full uniform, power walking with singular intent to wherever their destination was. The merchant was quick to change topics. "You insult me, sir! I cannot take less than two hundred Akche for this! My final offer." The two hulking soldiers passed by, not even sparing them a glance, and Ezio eyed the pair with his eagle, recognizing the one he had been tailing. Had he told his partner of his corruption? It was time to move on.

Ezio leaned in to the merchant's space. "When I find him, I will ask about the rugs," he said softly.

The merchant's eyes widened, looking at Ezio with renewed interest, before he put on a more conciliatory tone. "You drive a hard bargain, stranger. Shall we compromise at one eighty? One eighty Akche, and we part as friends!"

But the Florentine ignored the merchant, watching as a third Janissary joined his target and his partner. The three fell in formation without any fanfare or exchange of words. Not even a hello? The partner threw a series of glances about him, an amateur's mistake, and Ezio realized they were trying to blend in. That was all kinds of ridiculous in their elaborate uniforms, and advertising their secrecy meant that the trio were going to report to a higher rank, and _that_ meant the meeting with the Byzantines Yusuf's men had been witnessing might go deeper than they initially thought. Would it go all the way up to Tarik Barleti? Ezio wasn't sure.

Tarik Barleti had been a levied Albanian, his previous life irrelevant because of the _devshirme_. Janissary training itself was housed almost entirely in Topkapi, making them as mysterious as the _sultan_ himself, and very little was known about the captain. It was well circulated that when Bayezid had picked Ahmet as successor, Tarik had been extremely – even excessively – angry, and there was a rumor that he had freed a woman from the _sultan's_ harem, but little else was known about him. Suleiman's assessment of his character was that he was proud, capable, and ambitious. Those were some very broad strokes, and Ezio hoped to, by the end of the month, have a much clearer picture of the man.

And where the Byzantines fit into Topkapi palace.

There, in one of the crossroads of the maze like bazaar, Ezio's three Janissaries stopped to speak to a man, and the grandmaster's eyes widened when he realized it was Tarik Barleti himself. Ezio called on his eagle to see what his three had to say. Would it be just a routine report? Or...

"What news?" the captain asked.

"Manuel has agreed to meet you, Tarik. He's waiting by the arsenal gate."

"An eager old weasel, isn't he? Come."

… What did that mean? Who was Manuel? Ezio frowned, studying the four. It had been his first tail that had made that report – was it in connection with the Byzantines? He would have to follow and find out.

"I pray Selim can soon return to a city in good spirits and stronger hands," Barleti said, shaking his head before leading his men through the crowds of the Kapalicharshi. He looked around, nodding to various merchants and giving flinty gazes to others. He continued to inspect the various stalls, obviously on a tour of the establishment, and gradually a small smile graced his face.

"Of all Mehmet's accomplishments, I am beginning to think this _charshi_ was the finest," he said.

"Agreed," one of his men murmured.

Many had gathered about, eying the soldiers warily, uncertain what to expect. Barleti turned to the crowds and scowled. "If you have no business here, you do not belong!" he growled. "Clear the way! No loitering!" Everyone dispersed to give the Janissaries a wide birth, regathering almost as soon as they were out of sight. Ezio kept himself well back; the elite soldiers were as adept as papal guards, even more perhaps, for their lifetime of training and Ezio did not want to be remotely noticeable. The four plowed through the stalls and shops, exiting into an enclosed courtyard of the bazaar, before Tarik turned to his men.

"This is an important meeting," he said in a low voice, barely reaching Ezio's eagle, "Make sure I am not being followed."

Two of the Janissaries separated from the quartet, blocking traffic and creating a crowd of people. Many complained, saying they had business and to let them pass, but the two soldiers crossed their arms and glared, the weight of their power and authority making protests die quickly. Ezio pulled out a cherry bomb – another of Yusuf's whimsical names – and took careful aim. The sound of the small explosion rippled over the knot of people, and the Janissaries moved almost immediately to investigate, Ezio slipping out invisible. It took ten minutes to catch up with the captain, and Tarik was talking with Ezio's original tail and a nervous merchant about the past.

"Ah, when I was a young man, there was a baker who worked right here selling fresh simit all day, every day. And on my free days I would buy two at a time, sometimes three. It is a shame that nothing good ever lasts long. Perhaps your business will do better, eh?"

" _Evet, beyefendim,_ " the merchant said, pale and submissive.

Barleti snorted at how his kind words were received and moved on.

"This Empire is sick," he said to his man, "and Bayezid – it pains me to say – is its cancer. You there!" he shouted suddenly, scaring everyone as he moved to a particular stall. "I will be back tomorrow, and if you have not disposed of all this foreign made garbage, I will confiscate it myself, and throw it into the Bosphorus Strait!"

"But I don't _have_ any other goods, _beyefendim_!" the merchant said in a pleading voice.

"Then you should have picked a different business," Barleti said, unyielding. "Now get out of my sight!"

The merchant quickly closed the drapes of his stall, the sounds of packing clearly heard over the din.

It was shortly after that Barleti and his man left the Kapalicharshi, and the two began navigating the streets south, inevitably to the arsenal gates. What awaited him there? Who was Manuel to garner such personal attention when the Janissaries kept to their own kind? Why was the meeting so important?

The Janissary captain was again talking to his escort, but Ezio put it from his mind; if they were meeting at the arsenal, that was where Ezio had to be. He found a quick route to the roofs, getting his bearings once he was atop them and made his way southwest, past Kuchuk Ayasofya and the docks of Cenk and his mercenaries and to the gates of the arsenal. To his utter surprise, Yusuf was there, eying the gates as well.

"Are we here for the same reason?" he asked.

Yusuf turned, also surprised. "What are _you_ doing here?" he asked. "One of my men claims he saw a shipment of weapons enter the arsenal. So I got curious."

"The Janissary I was tailing went straight to Tarik Barleti. A meeting has been arranged between him and a man named Manuel. Do you know a Byzantine by that name? And what weapons? I would like to see them for myself."

Yusuf tugged at his beard. "We used to have a way into the arsenal," he said, "but it collapsed after the earthquake, and it floods every spring regardless. Perhaps..." He cursed. " _Bok_ , I don't know why I have a man in the university if I'm can't use him. What I need is a man in _Topkapi_ , but they're so closed off it's almost as ridiculous as an Italian minstrel. No offense," he added with a wry grin.

"None taken," Ezio said lightly. "It's been two years since the earthquake, _si_? Many masons were used to clean up, could your way in have been cleared?"

"I don't know. This is why I need a man in Topkapi."

"I suppose we'll have to learn the hard way."

The two men moved north, following the arsenal wall but sticking to the streets. Yusuf moved steadily until he ducked into a courtyard, Ezio following, and Yusuf extended his hidden blade to wedge out a particular brick. Inside he pulled out a key. " _Guzel_ ," he said. "Now we go to the cisterns." Two blocks away was an access point, and Yusuf lead Ezio through a complicated maze of tunnels before the Turkish master assassin gave a cheerful giggle. "You were right, _Usta_ , they have cleared it away!" Yusuf stuck his hidden blade into a relief, releasing a secret door and walking down another narrow access path before hitting a gate. The key was put to use, and soon they were climbing up a ladder and exiting through a sewer grate. "The classics always work best," Yusuf said with a grin.

They came out just inside the wall, and they followed it back to the gates, taking a discreet position to wait for the strolling Tarik to finally arrive. They could hear some of the commerce outside, and listened as the Janissaries exerted their will.

"You have been warned twice! No merchants near the arsenal wall. Take this away!"

"Hypocrites! If your men did not buy my produce, I wouldn't sell it here! You are worse than the Byzantines, you traitor!"

 **"** Hold your tongue, parasite!"

"Ah! Don't kill me! I'm just trying to make a living!"

Yusuf sighed. "Even in times of peace, the poor are always under siege."

"So long as men hold themselves above others to make themselves feel better, this will continue to happen."

Yusuf snorted. "Have you ever known it to _not_ happen?"

" _Si._ In the Brotherhood."

Yusuf laughed outright. "Ever the optimist, no?"

It was in the span of fifteen minutes that the doors opened, Tarik Barleti and the Janissary were now with an aged fat man with a snowy white beard and a man in full armor and face mask. The fourth man looked intimidating, while the old fat man was rich and opulent. The armored man handed over a crate and the Janissary took it, immediately putting it to the ground and opening it. Money filled it, a _lot_ of money.

"You may verify the amount, Tarik," the old man was saying while the Janissary counted, "but the money stays with me until I have seen the cargo for myself and assayed its quality."

"Understood," Barleti said with a polite bow. "You are a shrewd man, Manuel."

"Trust without cynicism is hollow," Manuel said, and Yusuf stiffened by Ezio. He gave a questioning look to the Turkish Mentor, but Yusuf's gaze was intent on the exchange.

"The count is good, Tarik," the Janissary said. "It's all here."

"So what now?" Manuel asked.

"You will have access to the arsenal," Barleti said in a smooth, slightly oily voice. It was the first time Ezio had ever heard the man try to be ingratiating. Much like at Topkapi, there was a subtlety to his words, hinting at a deeper meaning that Ezio did not know. What was the subtext? "When you are satisfied, the cargo will be delivered to a location of your choosing."

Manuel's head tilted back, slightly skeptical. "Are your men prepared to travel?"

"Not a problem," Barleti said, that hint of oil still there, this time mixed with a hint of a smile.

" _Poli Kalà,_ " Manuel said in Greek. "I will have a map drawn up for you within the week."

And with that, Barleti nodded to his Janissary and the soldier gestured for Manuel and his fiercely masked companion to follow, moving deeper into the arsenal. The two shared a look, Yusuf's face hard and tight, and as one they followed the trio, sticking to the lengthening shadows of the day and listening dimly to the evening call to prayer. They followed the north wall, taking to the roofs as soon as they could and keeping their targets in sight. The shipyard lay to their south, ships of varying degrees of completion either dry docked or in the water, Janissary patrols stalking about to give the meeting privacy. Was Yusuf's rumor about weapons about to be confirmed? Why would the captain of the Janissaries be selling arms to some Greek? He looked to Yusuf but knew now was not the time to ask questions. Then tension rippling off the other man's body was proof enough that this was serious.

Deadly serious.

They arrived at warehouse at the extreme west corner of the arsenal, and Ezio and Yusuf slowly made their way back to the ground, spying the exchange.

"Twenty years in this city, living like a cipher," the aged Manuel said, bitter and tapping his fingers together, "and finally, everything is falling into place." A cruel grin of anticipation bled through his white beard.

His escort remarked in a soft, dangerous voice, "When the Palaiologos line is restored, Manuel, do not forget who helped you bring it back." Tension rippled off the masked man almost as much as it did Yusuf.

"Of course not, my friend!" Manuel said, charismatic. "I would not dream of betraying a man of your influence. But you must be patient. Nova Roma wasn't built in a day."

The Janissary opened several crates for the Greek to inspect, the dark shadows preventing even Ezio's eagle to see what was in them. At length, he finally said, "I am satisfied. Take me to my ship. If a single one is damaged, the money stays with me."

As soon as they were gone the two men snuck into the warehouse and broke open one of the crates.

" _Merda..._ "

" _Bok_!" Yusuf hissed as they saw the rows and rows of firearms. It was enough for an _army_. Barleti was selling _guns_ to some Greek _army_ , and Ezio didn't understand why. Who was Manuel Palaiologos? What was his significance? Ezio and Yusuf shared a tense look before slowly, painstakingly, backtracking out of the arsenal. As soon as they were clear Yusuf started swearing across three languages, determined to burn the very air as they made their way north to the nearest den. Meryem was shocked to see the normally cheerful Yusuf in such a black mood, and soon he sent word to all the den leaders to drop _whatever_ they were doing and meet him at the hideout. Yusuf was still cursing all the way to the ferry, and Ezio couldn't get a straight answer out of him as to what the problem was.

It wasn't until almost two hours later, when everyone was assembled, that Yusuf dropped the bombshell.

"The leader of the Byzantine Templars is Manuel Palaiologos, last in line for the Byzantine throne."

The news rocked the council, and Ezio at last realized the gravity of the situation. Azize was quickly sent to their library to search the last sixty years' worth or records to see what they knew of him. Manuel Palaiologos: born in 1455, two years after the fall of Constantinopoli, fled to Roma where his father converted to Roman Catholicism and was recognized as the Byzantine emperor. He returned to the city in '85 and traded his title of emperor for a wealthy pension and became, to all accounts, a model citizen. Nobody knew when he had decided to become a Templar, though Ezio strongly suspected his time in Roma and exposure to the then Cardinal-Deacon and Vice-Chancellor of the pope, Rodrigo Borgia, likely had something to do with it. That implied he had been planning this for a long time – over twenty years. He was a wealthy merchant – the source of funding and access to Kapalicharshi that everyone had wondered about – and likely had steading in several places throughout the Black and Agean Seas. His arms could have been sent almost anywhere, and nobody knew where to start looking.

The larger question, however, was why _now_. Templar presence had all but disappeared after the Ottomans came in, the majority of assassin work for the last forty years had been focused on keeping them out: they had asked Mario Auditore to have Cem, Bayezid's brother and prisoner of the pope, assassinated to prevent more fighting over the throne, for fear that the Ottoman royal would bring Borgia/Templar power with him to take over the sultanate. Ezio hadn't realized that his uncle had done that, and an old pain welled up in his chest, and he forced himself to push it aside in favor of learning more, but there was little more to be said.

If the last forty years had been (relatively) peaceful compared to the times under the Byzantines, then where had all the funding and resources come from in the last two years? How rich was Manuel Palaiologos? He had money certainly, but enough to fund a campaign as large as the one he seemed to operate? Why wait until he was well in his sixties before enacting his revenge? Why was he even making a bid for the next _sultan_ , theoretically he would want them annihilated. They had found the Janissary connection, but why would Barleti – a man by all accounts devoutly loyal to the sultanate, align himself with the Byzantines? Was he truly _that_ upset with the choice of Ahmet? Did the contempt he hinted at over Bayezid really extend so far? The man was subtle, tightly in control of himself, and hard to read. Ezio needed more information, and for that he needed to talk to the _shehzadem_.

Nothing could be done until the arms delivery was returned, that much was obvious; once the Janissaries came back, the assassins could filch the map to wherever Manuel was staging his operations, and from there they could come up with a way to exterminate the Templars. In the interim, Ezio needed to infiltrate Topkapi again and give some very bad news to a boy he had grown slightly fond of.

The thought depressed him deeply.

* * *

Ezio was not able to meet with Suleiman. The young prince was out of the city, in the province of Crimea he governed, doing the work he was trained to do. After some discreet questions, he learned that the young prince would be back at the end of the following week. So Ezio focused on organizing what they had learned, Yusuf gathering more and more information every day. Hayri was a great asset, his thieves able to get Assassins into offices to find and copy documents that the thieves couldn't read well enough to find. More depth came of the conspiracy as, now seeing the thread stitching them all together, lead to other acts likely perpetrated by the Byzantines.

Damat, the vizier who recognized Ezio and Sila as Assassins, was soon linked to the conspiratorial web and she started digging into his whereabouts and finances. Where the money was coming from was still a mystery. Palaiologos couldn't have financed such a major operation, not alone as they uncovered more and more. And there was no way he could have held sway over the Janissaries. Especially with Barleti's clear disgust of the man and how the Janissaries were trained. There had to be someone in Topkapi, but Yusuf had no way to investigate.

After spending a morning writing a letter to Claudia, explaining the situation and responding to the news that he was to be a grand-uncle, Ezio decided he needed a break. One lunch later, he was winding through the streets, so very familiar after visiting weekly for half a year. Sofia was happy to greet him and soon he was helping her shelve new printed copies of the books he'd been recovering from all over Istanbul.

Her customers had been impressed to find books long lost in print in her store, and a scholar from the university had already started to visit to see the books. Business was on an upswing and she was thrilled.

"I'm closing in on two more books," she said in her back office. "One near Topkapi and the other in the Bayezid district."

"Bayezid first," Ezio said. "Topkapi will be a dead end."

Sofia blinked and raised an eyebrow. "Ah, _si_ ," she said lightly. "The master knows all."

Ezio chuckled.

"I was thinking of displaying a painting in the shop," she said, pulling out a fabric covered frame. It was a portrait of Sofia, a three-quarters view, with her curly red hair falling neatly by her cheeks and ears. "It is a good likeness, don't you think?"

"I prefer the original," Ezio replied with a smile as he looked her in the sparkling eye.

"You jester," she giggled, smacking his chest. "This was a gift from my father for my twenty-eighth birthday. I had to sit for _messer_ Albrecht Durer for a full week. Can you imagine? Me, sitting still for seven days? Doing nothing?"

Sofia, who was always moving about her shop, checking on her customers, or pouring over books? Ezio shook his head. "I cannot."

"Torture! It was torture!"

Ezio couldn't hold back his smile.

The afternoon waned to evening, Sofia letting some of her customers come to the fire where it was warmest to kneel and pray rather than trek up the long hill to Ayasofya and Ezio, as always, admired her kindness and generosity. Customers who were rude or belittling were gently scolded about manners, reminded of certain verses from the Quran, and then politely asked to leave. Other customers would nod approvingly and support her if someone got so abusive and called her an "infidel". Ezio never had to step in, though he was always by her side in support, should she need it.

Dinnertime arrived and Sofia insisted Ezio stay and eat, it was far too cold out to leave without something warm in his belly. Ezio had to admit, he didn't mind having a reason to stay.

They were at the couch by the fire, sipping wine and conversing. It was dark out and Sofia had lit a few candles to accentuate the warm glow of the fire. Ezio chuckled and Sofia was again quirking her lips in bemusement. Her eyes were alight and sparkling with mischief.

"You know, Ezio," Sofia smiled, "you are quite the man of mystery."

"It is a gift."

Eyes still sparkling, she leaned forward. "Yet for a man steeped in mystery, I don't think you pick up subtlety very well."

"Oh-?"

Sofia kissed him, firmly, but not aggressively, his attempted question letting her explore his mouth as she deepened the kiss and swiftly dug her fingers into his hair.

In one brief flash of knowing, Ezio realized something. He had known Sofia was interested in him. That she liked him and enjoyed his company. That much was obvious as she flirted and lingered in his presence. But in this flash of insight, Ezio realized that her care and regard for him went far deeper than he had thought.

Sofia was on his lap, straddling him, the many skirts of her dress cushioning his responsive body from what it wanted. Her hands were buried in his hair, and she pressed into him, her kiss becoming more needy. His hands were clutching, one on her bosom, one on her bottom, and thought was quickly leaving. He broke off her kiss to plant his lips at the joint of her neck and shoulder, favoring the taste of her skin.

The loud whinny of a horse outside brought enough sense to Ezio to know he didn't want to do this where any on the street may look in and see. So with an ease one didn't usually associate with his age, his strong arms lifted her. Sofia gasped in surprise, and he covered her mouth with his. The back room had a door leading upstairs as he recalled...

Sofia's legs clutched at him and Ezio grunted, want and need colliding in his head, as he pushed her against the wall of the back room to rebalance and support her. This time, Sofia traced her lips on Ezio's neck. The image from before, when the rug merchant had suggested a wife, the image of Sofia floated again in his mind and Ezio had another realization of just how much he loved Sofia. How much he wanted her by his side, how much he valued her opinions, how much he adored and admired her, how much she inspired him.

How much he _loved_ this intelligent, independent woman.

One of his hands ghosted up her side and Sofia gave a delightful little giggle. Between her bodice and his armor, Ezio decided they were wearing far too many clothes at the moment. He loved her and he wanted to show her how he deeply and truly loved her.

He set her down, trying to pull back from the kiss, but her insistent hands in his hair made that difficult. He managed to pull enough to ask, "bed?" and Sofia gave a husky moan.

Grabbing his hand, she led him upstairs, past the second floor of the shop, to her rooms above. She went about stoking the fire and lighting candles as quickly and safely as she could as Ezio quickly dispensed his armor and shirt, making certain his hidden blades and sword were by the nightstand. He turned and smiled. Sofia was silhouetted by the fire, glowing in the candle light, wrestling with the laces of her corset.

He would have to help h _er... No! Rebecca! Shaun! I don't want to see this! Do_ n't Ezio cupped Sofia's face with a hand, and she paused to look up at him. He smiled, and kissed her more gent _ly. Clay said I'm in control so SKIP, dammit! Get away!_

* * *

Ezio awoke in contented, bone-deep lassitude. He was warm and lazy, as he slowly awoke. A deep breath brought the scent of hair, and something shifted, snuggling deeper into his side. Ezio's lips twitched into a quirked smile that he was certain was far more appropriate on the person content to use him as a pillow than on his own face. Outside _fahr_ prayers of Islam were starting to echo around the city and Ezio just listened, admiring how a whole city could be so united, so many times a day.

Sofia burrowed further into his side, and he squeezed her tight, relishing the feel of her tangled with him, of their closeness, of his love for her. He kissed the top of her head and Sofia gave a sleepy, contented sigh.

Holding her so close, Ezio couldn't help but fall asleep again.

He awoke again, and the peeks of blue sky he could see showed it was approaching mid-morning. With a frown, Ezio realized he was going to have to get up and face the day at some point, meet with Yusuf, see how the documentation was coming, check in on the dens and see how each leader was doing and what they needed. He hadn't seen Dogan for some time before that large meeting where they were pooling their resources, mostly because Ezio was on the southern side of the city so often.

But at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to stay in this warm cocoon, for just a few more hours.

He felt the flutter of eyelashes by his shoulder, and looked down to see Sofia waking up. She blinked, taking in her surroundings, and Ezio was happy to see the moment she remembered the night previous flash across her eyes. She looked up to him with a large, content, happy smile, and sat up, still completely naked.

"Well," she said, rubbing her eyes. "I thought you'd be a good lover but I certainly never expected _that_!"

Ezio chuckled, sitting up himself and leaning back against the bed. "Good morning, _bella donna_."

Sofia smiled slyly. "Good morning yourself," she said in a low voice. Ezio reached forward and pulled her to him. They kissed, gently, both still too lazily content to do more than cuddle. There was a conversation they needed to have, but neither wished to address it at that moment.

They stayed in bed for almost another hour, holding each other and kissing, before stomachs started demanding that motion to the kitchen was required.

Sofia sighed. "Ezio," she said softly, sitting back again. "Who are you? You're not a scholar, that much is clear," she gestured to his blades and armor. "Do you work for the church?"

"Heh," Ezio didn't even bother trying to bite back the chuckle. "Not the church, no," he said, reaching out and rubbing her bare arm. "But I am a teacher... of a kind."

Her frown showed just how unsatisfactory that answer was.

He kept tracing patterns on her arm. "I am a man of mystery," he said softly. "The work I do is dangerous. I left that danger in search of something, something you are helping me to find. But coming here, I met colleagues who needed help and am now embroiled in that." His finger traced down her arm to her thigh, where he settled his hand. "I will explain one day, Sofia. When I can."

She blew out a breath, annoyed, but nodded. "I can't deny you your mysteries," she said.

Ezio leaned forward and kissed her softly. "I have work to do today, and you have a shop to run."

" _Si, si_ ," she grumbled, but stood. She showed no bashfulness as she walked about the room, pulling out what she would need for the day and laying it out, and Ezio stood, reaching for his drawers and trousers. Sofia looked at him, sad, but lovingly. "You'd better get going."

Ezio stepped over to her, pulled her into a tight hug, feeling their naked chests, and let his hand splay itself along her bottom.

"Dearest," he said softly into her ear, "I am only going so that I can make you breakfast."

Then he stepped back, admired her bright red blush, and went to go get a fire started in the kitchen.

Ezio was hardly what one would call a good cook. Or even much of a cook. Extremely simple dishes he could do, having done them as a child for Petruccio or sneaking through the kitchens, and always being on the move throughout Italia left one little time to learn. Thankfully, however, he didn't have to struggle long in the kitchen, before Sofia came down, as barely clothed as himself, and the two started making breakfast. Ezio's lack of information was ignored and put aside in favor of just enjoying their closeness and intimacy. They sat side by side, Ezio inquiring as to how she planned to spend her day and Sofia blatantly planning on doing utterly nothing productive except more adventures in bed. As they finished, Ezio had an arm around her, hand cupping her bosom, while Sofia held the hand there.

Turning her head, she gave a slow, lingering kiss, her tongue running over his lips as he smiled at her. "Now you really _do_ need to get going. Before it's noon."

Ezio chuckled.

"Once you're dressed I have another location for you."

"I don't deserve someone like you."

Ezio was out on the streets of Istanbul once again, heading to Meryem's den, the closest to Sofia's shop, to get a change of clothes and start checking in on the myriad of things he needed to do. He barely got down a darkened alley when Yusuf was in front of him with a large, massive grin.

"Ah, _Usta_ da Firenze," Yusuf said light, his eyes dancing with mirth. "It seems you had quite the busy night last night."

"Pardon me?" Ezio replied in a low tone.

Yusuf giggled. "You know, that young apprentice who was your escort yesterday seemed to have gotten quite an eyeful when he was getting worried that you hadn't reappeared after so long."

Ezio frowned heavily.

"I knew you Italians are much looser on your interpretations of your own Bible, but last I checked, didn't you need to be married before starting relations with someone?"

"Like you and Kizzy?"

Yusuf grandly and theatrically grabbed his heart and grunted in pain. "Ach, struck by a fencing master!" he groaned with flamboyance. "Never have I heard such a sharp rebuttal, and delivered so elegantly! I shall not live long after so swift a death! You realize in Romani culture 'kidnapping' is a way to get married, if the family doesn't approve, _evet_?"

" _Bastardo_..."

Yusuf couldn't stop laughing.

So Ezio broke out into a feral grin. "If you think I have a loose interpretation of the Bible, you should have seen Firenze. I, at least, enjoy women."

Still giggling, Yusuf raised an eyebrow. "But what else is there, but a woman, for a man to enjoy?"

Ezio's grin got wider. "You _do_ know that in Firenze, there were men who would enjoy men, right?"

Yusuf grinned stupidly at him for a moment, before his jaw dropped. "How does that even _work_?"

"One of my brotherhood in Roma was like that. She's settled with a woman and they were quite happy."

Yusuf shuddered. "I'll admit defeat, _Usta_ ," Yusuf replied. "A fencing master indeed. That sort of thing here? With Islam?" Yusuf shuddered again.

Ezio shrugged. "If someone finds love, how can we deny them? It's those who go after _children_ that I take issue with."

"Ezio," Yusuf replied, suddenly looking sick, "I don't think I want to know anything more about you Italians."

The Florentine's grin was most satisfied.

Yusuf soon left, off to meet with Hayri the thief about the information that he had been helping the Assassins gather and where to start looking next, and Ezio went instead to the Valens Aqueduct. Constructed in 368 by the Roman Empire, the structure spanned almost a full kilometer, between the university that Mehmet had established when Ezio was still a child, and the Faith Mosque, _Fatih Camili_ , the Aqueduct had suffered massive damage during the earthquake, leaving an entire section collapsed, which was a major disappointment given that Bayezid had still been repairing it and adding a new line from when the Ottomans had taken over and Mehmet had the repairs started.

Ezio spent a good portion of the afternoon walking the entire length, speaking with the construction workers hauling stone and mud up to repair the cracks and damages before tackling the larger breakage. There were rumors that the break in the aqueduct was a sign from heaven, because there were _other_ rumors that a new mosque would be built and with the break in the aqueduct it was a chance to provide a better view of the new mosque. Ezio rather thought it fanciful, but he didn't know what plans Bayezid or Ahmet had in mind. After getting a better feel for it, he walked along the roofs, his eagle aware, looking for any sign of where the ancient book might be.

As the afternoon waned, Ezio came to the collapsed portion of the aqueduct and finally noticed the flickers of gold, the sure sign that he found what he was looking for. He paused before looking around for how to climb the rubble. And then Ezio smiled to himself.

Back at Sofia's shop, she was bidding a good day to her customers as they all headed up the hill to Ayasofya to pray when Ezio arrived.

"Ah, Ezio," she said with a sly grin. "Welcome back."

"I'd like you to come with me," he said with a slight bow and offering his arm.

"Oh?" she asked with a delighted smile, arching an eyebrow delicately and her lips still quirked in amusement.

" _Si, bella donna_ ," he remained bowed. "We have a book to find."

" _We_?"

Ezio straightened and his gentle smile was radiant. "We."

Sofia practically glowed as she quickly hustled about her shop to close. The sun was setting, washing the city in gold as they strolled down almost empty streets with everyone in prayer. Ezio leaned over to kiss the corner of her mouth and she turned to return the favor in kind, though briefly. If her eyes were any indication, however, there was a certain promise for later on.

They talked as they headed through the city, and Sofia outlined some cultural bits that Ezio apparently needed to know about Islamic cities.

"Even though we are foreigners, it is frowned upon to do anything beyond hugging or holding hands in public once you're married. We don't want to offend parents or undo their teachings to their children."

Ezio thought of Firenze, where sex was so common, courtesans and brothels, Duccio and his preferred back alley trysts, powerful men known to bring in young boys. Two very different extremes, and he wondered if there couldn't be a middle ground somewhere.

"Well for now, with everyone in prayer, I think I can steal a kiss or two," he replied, leaning over to do just that. Sofia certainly didn't mind.

They came to the destroyed portion of the aqueduct, and Ezio knew he would have to hurry as the light kept sinking with the sun. He and his eagle had incredible night vision, but it was so incredible people often didn't believe it. "I believe the book is there," he said, pointing up to the destroyed section. "As I spoke with the masons today, that seems the most likely section. They've combed the entire length of this thing looking for cracks and holes, _except_ this part because it will be the biggest fix to do." And his eagle had spotted it, but he didn't get into that.

"Incredible," she said, stepping forward and craning her lovely neck up to look. "Why would it be hidden here? All that water flowing above, surely they knew that water damages books, so why risk it _under_ constantly flowing water?"

Ezio smiled. "The Roman empire built things to last," he replied. "The ancient ruins of Roma prove that."

"I've never been to Roma," Sofia replied. "Or that far outside of Venezia."

"Then I have many places to show you."

The implication that he would take her there hung for a moment, and Ezio enjoyed the soft smile Sofia had at the reassurance that he was there and _would_ be there.

"Now let's get that book."

"But we'll need a ladder—"

But Ezio was already climbing the brick and stone of the aqueduct, swiftly and easily, though he avoided using the hookblade with Sofia watching. Soon he was up atop the first layer of arches, looking down at her and smiling. "I don't think a ladder is all that necessary," he replied. It was showing off and he knew it, but he _wanted_ Sofia to know more about him. The most important parts, of being an Assassin, couldn't be shared, not now. But what he could _do_ , certainly could be.

Her surprised face was certainly worth it.

"I'll be down in a moment."

Ezio studied the stones around him carefully, looking at how the mortar was set and still strong. The base of this broken arch wasn't good for hiding. Water could easily slip between and erode over time, which wouldn't do a book any good and the Polos had proven to be quite smart in how they hid things. So Ezio went to one column, then another.

Ah...

There was a stone inset deeper than the rest, thus avoiding any weather but wind-driven rain, and the stone beneath it was tilted down, away from the interior to let any water that did slip into the two-inch deep alcove, drain away. It wasn't easy to get his fingers around anything, So Ezio used his hidden blade to pry the stone loose. With it gone, he reached in and fumbled around, unable to see in the darkening skies and the hole itself too small to do more than stick in his arm. Fumbling up, putting his arm in almost to his shoulder, he at last reached the feel of old coptic bindings. With some careful twisting, he was able to pull it out. The sunlight was fading, but Ezio trusted his eagle and carefully flipped through the pages, looking for the markings on the side that he needed in order to know where the next key was.

The Forum of the Ox.

With a smile, Ezio stood and came to the edge. Sofia was still looking up, and her face broke into a smile once she saw the book.

"Be careful with that!" she called up. "We don't know how old it is yet!"

Ezio chuckled. He held the book carefully, and climbed down with the swift ease of his decades of practice with Federico's lessons.

Sofia excitedly started looking at the book, the faded print hard to read in the poor lighting.

"Magnificent," she said, ghosting her fingers along the edges of the cover. "I can't wait to study it, transcribe it to get a print ready. After the previous two books, some scholars are always hovering when I get a new delivery."

"Well then," Ezio smiled. "Shall we return to your shop?" he said in a particular voice as he let his breath ghost along her ear.

Sofia turned, slightly surprised, then smiled.

The following morning, Ezio left Sofia's shop _again_ and this time managed to get back to the derelict mosque. Yusuf was grinning madly, and would occasionally burst into fits of giggles, but he knew better than to engage in the Teasing of Ezio, since Ezio had won so supremely last time around. But there was still a distinct spark of mischief in his eyes as he looked to the Florentine mentor. Ezio steadfastly ignored the Turkish mentor. He was going to be going to the Forum of the Ox, and he would need supplies first, as well as doing some research. The last time, when he'd explored Galata Tower, had been when he _wasn't_ prepared and he was going to make sure he didn't make the same mistake twice. Getting supplies together wasn't a problem. Candles, ropes, climbing tools, and travel mix would all be standard for this, but the research necessary had him digging through the various libraries of the hideout to learn more of what to expect.

The Forum was built sometime in the fourth century, but scholars couldn't agree on when. The reason why it was called the Forum "of the Ox" turned out to be one of the most horrifying and disgusting bits of history that Ezio had ever read. A large hollow bronze statue of a bull's head had been the center of the Forum for centuries. Used as a furnace from time to time, the primary reason of the ox was to put some prisoner or traitor inside the bull and then build a fire around the bull, letting the person inside be burned and suffocated alive. Thankfully, the bull was no longer there, likely melted into coins at some point by the Byzantines, but records for the Assassins during that time were scarce.

Ezio had been by the Forum many times and he wasn't sure he could look at it the same way ever again. The same way Il Colosseo and the gladiators who had fought there brought up mixed feelings in him before he'd discovered the Vault underneath it.

After going through such records, Ezio was heavily tempted to just go and spend another night with Sofia, but he simply kept focusing on his task. The Forum was in the valley created by the Lycus River, and Ezio decided some waterproofing for his clothes might be a good idea. All of the keys had been hidden underground thus far, in a pair of cisterns, so a waxed cloak would likely be a good edition if the Forum led him underground to the river.

And so on and so on.

Ezio went to the university to see if they had any other information on the Forum, but didn't find anything that would be particularly useful to him for when he explored whatever the Polos had been able to hide.

He was running over the list of his supplies and trying to think of anything else he needed when he returned.

He crossed the bridge, intent to get to his room where he was setting his materials, when a familiar Italian voice called out to him.

"Hello!"

Ezio stopped midstep.

Ezio turned.

Ezio's eyes widened.

Sofia was by one of the ancient pillars, Yusuf's smile almost dazzling, and Sofia's face was alight with seeing him.

"Ezio, you old snake," Sofia smiled, stepping forward. "You walked right past me." Her eyes were sparkling with mirth.

Ezio was going to _kill_ Yusuf.

"Ahh," he floundered, "forgive me, Sofia. I did not notice." Still, he couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. "What are you doing in Galata?"

"Making some deliveries," she replied. "I was surprised when one of them was to this derelict mosque, but then your friend Yusuf came to collect the book and said you'd be by soon."

So of course she stayed.

Yusuf was going to be _beyond_ dead.

"We give you our thanks for another book," he replied, still off guard.

"Is this where you stay?" Sofia asked, looking around curiously, eyeing the many rugs and how they hung and held in the warmth of the various fires used to warm their underground home.

"Ahhh, _si_ ," Ezio replied, wondering how to explain anything after Yusuf had deliberately led her down the long trek of the cistern to even reach their little headquarters. "It is a kind of... school."

An orphan came barreling through the cavernous room, screeching in laughter as a novice chased after him, neither noticing the awkwardness Ezio was sure he was dying from.

"What is taught here?" Sofia asked, watching the children disappear.

That was a question Ezio wasn't ready to answer yet. At _all_.

Yusuf was going to die slowly and painfully, then Ezio was going to _rip_ his soul to pieces. The spirit of Desmond that was attached to him somehow would surely agree.

"Come this way," he said changing subject. Sofia frowned, but nodded, acknowledging that her question went too close to what they wouldn't talk about. Ezio gave her a warm smile as he took her arm. "I want to show you something," he said softly. He took her on a tour of the libraries. "We have been restocking our library. After the earthquake ruined everything, it has been a lot of work to reorganize and repair what we had. This is our library of anatomy, for those who wish to study medicine. We have a library on chemistry, historical records, politics, and other sciences."

Sofia's eyes were shining delight as she rushed into each room, skimming titles and pulling random books down to study.

"A good start, no?" Ezio asked in full Florentine irony.

"Ah," Sofia sighed happily. "These are all so beautiful." She turned, "and such diversity."

The tour took several hours as Sofia eagerly looked through almost every shelf, her eyes cataloguing everything and asking soft questions, including what she could borrow for her own shop.

Of course, since they were there so long going from one library room to another, many of the assassins saw them. The orphans and novices had no problem stopping to stare at the withered old mentor gently guiding around a literature enthusiast and talking different teaching methods and what might be required reading. The journeyman at least attempted to be more subtle, though Ezio kept waving them off with more and more heated glares.

At last they came back to the main meeting room where Azize was with a small group of children, teaching the alphabet and basic reading skills.

"So," Sofia said, hugging his arm, "are all these men and women _your_ students?"

Ezio _firmly_ ignored all the curious glances and staring. "In a way, yes," he replied. "Though I'm more of a visiting teacher. Yusuf is in charge of this rabble. I merely help where I can."

"Well," Sofia sighed, leaning into his frame as they watched Azize with the toddlers, "if they ever need a literature scholar, give them my name." She looked at him with mischief in her eyes. "In a pinch," and she _did_ pinch him, "I am a pretty good teacher."

Smiling, Ezio nodded. "If they find the time to read, I certainly will."

Yusuf stepped forward with one of his huge massive grins on his face. " _Bella donna_ Sofia," he said, butchering the pronunciation. "It is nearing dinner time and I'm sure we'd all be honored with the presence of anyone who could catch our _Usta_ da Firenze's eye."

Oh yes, Ezio was _certain_ the spirit of Desmond wouldn't mind helping him destroy Yusuf, body and soul.

Ezio made certain that Sofia left that night, and escorted her back to her shop, but regretfully he didn't stay. He had work to do and he would need rest for whatever challenges the Forum of the Ox would throw his way. And as delightful as spending another night with Sofia might be, it _wouldn't_ be conducive to being restful.

* * *

The Roman Forum was a breath of familiar air to Ezio as his eyes took in the colonnade, the arches, the symmetry and the disrepair. He was instantly transported to Roma, Il Colosseo and the arched gates and the old baths in Antico. Mystery surrounded the place, age and decay slowly eroding the magnificence it must have inspired when it was new and the center of life in the days of the Roman Empire. As often happened in Roma, Ezio looked out over the rectangular lot and wondered what it was like when there were parades, speeches, trials, or even the regular commercial day-to-day events of the form. Now it was covered in plants and vines; many columns were broken and decayed. Bushes and trees interspersed with manmade pools that held lilies and hints of time gone by. The center of the forum held a beaten cobblestone path that led curiously down into the ground, ending at a flat panel flanked by fluted columns, entirely decorative. Ezio stretched to his toes and saw the river perhaps a dozen feet away; it went underground there, and it was by the river that he found the entrance.

At the base was a relief that he was slowly becoming familiar with, an assassin relief that needed a hookblade to open it. Ezio did so, and walked into the yawning tunnel as it continued down.

Ezio was in complete blackness so he lit a candle as he made his way down the stairs into a tunnel. Off in the distance, he could hear the trickling sound of running water, but it sounded more like a river than a steady stream down a wall. Then Ezio remembered that this _was_ the valley where the Lycus River went underground, and he stepped forward more cautiously. With so much water, there would be mud and puddles and all sorts of things to make him slip and slide, so he took care as he moved.

Fifteen minutes later there was a corner ahead, and beyond it Ezio could see light. So he doused his candle and carefully peeked around.

Byzantines.

A makeshift dock was set on the river and a squad of Byzantines were loading large barrels into a boat tied to the dock and bouncing in the flow of the water. They were speaking in Greek, which was still mostly noise to Ezio's ears, but he'd been around Obelius and Sotiris and the Orthodox millet enough to pick up a few words.

There was mention of hard stone, the earthquake, and gunpowder. Ezio may not have understood the specifics, but he understood enough of _that_ to know that they had found another of the hiding places of the keys. And, since the Byzantines were kind enough to have barrels of gunpowder right there, Ezio took aim with his hidden gun. He fired, but suddenly, at the last possible second, one of the Byzantines leaned forward, right into the bullet's path, making blood and brain matter splatter onto the barrels as the shot's echo was swallowed up by the water.

" _Diavolo_!" Ezio swiftly reloaded.

The Byzantines were a flurry of Greek noise, but Ezio was able to pick out "Assassin! Go! Go!" as they hurried to cut through the thick and sodden ropes that attached them to the dock.

Ezio fired again, this time hitting the barrels, and ducked behind the corner as the explosion rocked the tunnel. There were all sorts of splashes, of loose bits of the roof of the cavern, the debris of the dock and the barrels, and the Byzantines taking a new swim.

Coming back around the corner, his hidden gun once more reloaded, Ezio stalked forward, searching for survivors. But there were none. The shockwave had killed them, or knocked them senseless enough that they drowned afterwards. The boat was still roped to the remains of the dock, its buoyancy in the water the only thing that saved it. Ezio climbed down from his tunnel to the dock's remains and stepped carefully. If the Byzantines had found something it was most likely down river. The boat would be useful. He dumped the other barrels of gunpowder into the river, letting them flow to wherever the Lycus River exited. The water would make the gunpowder useless and thus, no longer a danger. He also took the torch the Byzantines had been using, though he had to relight it with his candle.

From there, it was a simple matter of letting the boat float downstream, using the rudder to maintain direction. He passed under ancient Roman arches, cracked and falling apart from the earthquake, with light from the streets above floating down through grates and Ezio marveled at the construction that the ancients had been able to create. How had they managed this with the water running so swiftly as to knock away anything used to dam the river enough to even _permit_ building? And the stone arches and structures went all the way up to the foundations of the streets and buildings above. How much had been buried over time, or were these arches _meant_ to be buried? Had the Romans discovered a way to bury a river for no other reason than convenience? They _did_ have Minerva, after all, to help and who knew what sorcery that ancient people had at their disposal.

Ancient skeletons of windows and doors lay sagging above with light brush growing wherever the sun gave enough light to grow. Old doors were closed in wrought iron rusted almost to dust. The crack of light from above disappeared as Ezio was once more fully underground and the torch could no longer provide enough light to see. How had the Polos gotten down here? The Roman ruins were clearly how they had traversed to wherever his final destination was, but how had those brothers even known to come down here? What records did they have that had been lost to antiquity that his generation no longer had access to? The only way he even knew of this existence was through _their_ work, now hundreds of years old and all but lost save for one journal the Templars had found, and one map that he had found beneath Sofia's shop.

From what he could see in the flickers of his torch, there were clear signs of sewer pipes, similar to the one he'd used, so then why were there rooms in these ancient buildings? Were the sewers and drainage pipes built at the same time or later? So many questions.

The sound of the water changed, and Ezio stopped looking at the architecture and looked ahead. Squinting against the darkness, he tried to see what...

 _Merda_! A waterfall! Ezio tried to flatten himself, to provide the best center of gravity for the boat as possible, since he'd _need_ the boat to get out of here. He kept his hands on the rims, and worked hard to keep a steady balance and face the waterfall head on. For one brief moment, he and the boat were weightless and Ezio shifted as far back as possible so that the back of the boat would land first and provide more stability.

It almost upended.

Almost. But Ezio was once more in control, and he spotted ahead another waterfall that dumped into his river that had his eagle screeching. He swiftly pulled out some of the ropes he had, including one with a hooked claw, which he quickly threw at the rocks at the base of the fall. The hook grabbed something, and Ezio started to pull himself and the boat against the current into the small alcove. The waterfall he had seen was nowhere near as terrifyingly magnificent as what he'd just fallen over. Instead, there was some sort of crack in the wall that had water streaming down the unusually flat surface to a set of stairs. With the rope secured, he waded through the pool to the steps, his sharp eyes already finding the Assassin symbol he needed to push to unlock the hidden door. Truly, it was a wonder that the Byzantines hadn't noticed these handy methods of getting in. Surely they knew what the Assassin's symbol, the stylized compass in a cup, looked like? But those were questions for another time. Instead, he stepped into the surprisingly dry chamber where the statue stood holding a box that bore the key.

The wonders of the ancient world never ceased to amaze him. The fact that the Polos had somehow been able to build all this, underground and in secret, all those centuries ago...

Ezio gave a small, soft smile.

"My thanks, Niccolò and Maffeo."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now, everything in the game comes in one great rush. All the major memories will be gone through in rapid succession, and the filler is officially over.
> 
> The most important thing in terms of overarching story is now Ezio and the others have connected all the kitchen sink elements of the plot into one vaguely cohesive sequence of events. They obviously haven't figured everything out, partly because of the game itself but partly because - like in life - not everything is a giftwrapped package. At least that's the excuse we tell ourselves when we couldn't figure out how the Romani or some of the bomb missions couldn't be worked in.
> 
> For Ezio, however, the most important part was the change in his relationship with Sofia. We have tried, as stated previously, to make Sofia and actual character. We have also, insomuch as the game allowed us, tried to make their relationship an actual relationship. There's been a good deal of flirting after eleven chapters, and Sofia as an independent business owner who can wear such low-cut bodices in Islamic Constantinople is NOT content to wait for Ezio to get a clue. Instead of Ezio wooing Sofia, it's the other way around, and for us at least it's a little empowering. Media in general always expects the guy to make the first move it seems - at least the media that we've seen - and watching Sofia take the lead makes us happy. We've also - again to the best of our ability - tried to make the idea of Ezio being in love work. It's easy for Sofia to crush on Ezio, he's naturally charming and good at making women feel happy. It's harder to pin down why Ezio would like Sofia (re: that extended rant on her lack of character), but given his relationship with Caterina Sforza and that Cristina was strong enough to tell Ezio "no," twice no less, we figured he'd go for strong independent women. Kind of like Altair, actually, now that we think about it in retrospect... Hm...
> 
> Also, Yusuf and teasing. Also, background for Sila at last! It's not much of one narratively, but on a personal level it's very poignant.
> 
> Muslim Lesson: One of the most fascinating things about the Qu'ran that can't be easily explained, is the language of it. Muhammed (peace be upon him), was illiterate, but after he became the Prophet, everything he said, chapter and verse, was a palindrome. Like, take the First Commandment, "I am the Lord thy God; thou shalt not put any other Gods before me." Can you, in any language you can think of, make it a palindrome like "Able was I ere I saw Elba?" The entire Qu'ran is like that. Seriously. Look it up on youtube. It's amazing.
> 
> Next chapter: Aficionados of our AC work may want to reread Order's Best Years to familiarize themselves for what's coming next.


	12. To Understand Failings

Ezio sat in his study, looking at the third disk he had acquired and taking a moment to contemplate the meaning of it. The map had hinted that there were five keys, with this he was just over halfway. Twice now Altaïr had shown him a glimmer of the man's past, twice about that man Abbas, who hated Altaïr so fervently. Would this third memory hold a similar pattern? What question would the great mentor of old be contemplating as he created the key? Would he arrive have an answer at last? Ezio flipped to a fresh roll of parchment, quill and ink ready. He had Sofia to thank for these gains, and he paused before he began his meditation, coming to realize something.

He had been happier in the last few days than he had for months, even years. His affection for the book merchant was deeper than he initially realized. This was not the series of beds he found in the cold Decembers of his youth, nor was this the affair with Caterina Sforza. This was closer to his love of Cristina, and that was when he realized how far he had fallen for this woman. He wanted to share things with her – not just stories of his family, but also brazenly showing off his skill at climbing, bringing her along to find the books. He wanted to tell her what it all meant; she wanted to know, but it was as he told Claudia. The dangers in his life were not something to share, and ignorance, as the saying went, was bliss. Was that fair to her? Was that right by her? Ezio didn't know, but the very last thing he wanted was to see her in any kind of pain because of the life he lead. He had seen all too often what happened to those who followed this path – he had a long string of bodies behind him to pointedly demonstrate the fact, and Ezio was not sure he could bear another loss such as that. Most especially if it was Sofia.

She was full of a type of innocence that assassins didn't have, of belief in the world. Ezio wanted to cherish it even as he wanted to revel in it. She challenged him intellectually; her sheer breadth of knowledge was impressive and extended in areas far beyond what Ezio knew from his very singular education. She flirted with him with abandon – and though he now knew it was because she more than found him attractive – he found the chase invigorating. He felt young again, with her, and the intimacy of their relationship was more than physical. She... she made him feel good, and something as simple as that had enamored his heart. Already, he was making plans after he had found the keys: taking her to Venezia, then to Firenze. Claudia would have to be introduced of course, and Federica and her lover (and their child... when he had finished killing Concetto). Machiavelli would like her, and so would the novices and apprentices and members of the guild...

And once again his brain caught up with him, and he realized just how much of his life had to be hidden from her if he wished to pursue this relationship as thoroughly as he did. Hiding that much would only hurt their still budding feelings, secrets of that size only brought tragedy.

But for all that there was danger in his life and in those around him, he was not the amateur of his youth. It was Sofia's decision to involve herself in his danger, and she could only make that decision if he told her the truth.

… Later.

After the keys had been found. After he had found the wisdom in Altaïr's library. After his pilgrimage was complete. He would have all the time in the world after that.

He looked to the key, thinking of Altaïr, and slowly began to meditate on the faintest of voice it of _fered._

* * *

_How long does it take for a man to understand his failings?_

_For years I thought my shortcomings had been laid bare to the world when Al Mualim demoted me. I had broken the Creed on all tenets, had cost my beloved friend Malik both his arm and his brother, had brought Templars to Masyaf and lost many brothers. My failings, my weaknesses, were obvious to all, and slowly obvious to me, as I worked my way back up the ranks. When it was over, I had thought I knew every sin I had committed, every failing in my person._

_I was wrong._

_For years I sought to prevent those mistakes. I worked intensely with Malik, and later Maria, and dedicated myself to the Order in ways I had never considered before that trial. To be Al Mualim is a difficult task, not one to be taken lightly, and I considered every decision I made carefully, thoughtfully, and – I hoped – with wisdom. But the one failing that had never been realized to me, perhaps the one failing I still cannot perceive, is my passion that so drives me as to care not for thought for others. It was that lack of thought for others that drove me to my demotion, and it was my passion that bade me spare the lives of Abbas and his followers. Simply killing them for breaking the Creed would cut our numbers down even further, it would sow seeds of distrust in others, and it would be a breach of the Creed in itself. I spared them, much to the chagrin of Malik and others, because I thought I could show them the world I saw._

_My term as Al Mualim was not easy; I changed many things, angered many, and in my drive to bring the Order to meet the future, I did not see the dissension I was seeding with my own hands._

_This was my greatest failing._

_And I would feel its cost for the rest of my life._

* * *

Altaïr rode up the mountain and took a deep breath, breathing its scent as he had not in ten years, and a flood of memories and images and sounds and thoughts entered his head. Maria and Darim flanked him, feeling similar thoughts, as they rode under the ancient Roman arch that marked the boarder of the Assassins. Their journey had been obscenely long, fraught occasionally with danger and often with frustration, but at last Temujin – Genghis Khan – was dead. Darim, now thirty-three, had at last come into his own. No longer was he a boy trying to find his place in the world out from the shadow of "son of the master," he was a man of his own means, an expert bowman, and comfortable with himself as a man. Altaïr and Maria had watched his growth with quiet pride, and when he had been the one to at last land the fatal strike, the boy had turned with a stoic face and said, simply, "Now we may go."

Maria, as always, was a sight to behold. The grey slipping through her hair and the lines on her face did nothing to reduce her beauty. She was strong as so many women were not in this day and age; she had come in to the brotherhood under suspicion and taken the garden visions and turned them into more than pretty faces to console lost brothers. The women of those gardens were now educated, given marketable skills, in charge of cleaning and maintaining the castle. They had lives that were no longer languid but filled with purpose; they debated with brothers and proved to all that women were not so sinful as the Bible implied, or so degraded as so many in the Holy Land deemed necessary. All because of his wife. Their ten year journey had brought them closer than ever, and the two of them had spawned the radical idea of allowing women to do more than comfort the men. A woman assassin would be invisible, unexpected, a boon to their cause. Maria was already making plans to implement the idea, and Altaïr both dreaded and looked forward to breathing the idea to the council in the lower library. The debate would be energizing, but he did not look forward to the resistance from Abbas and his followers.

… How was Abbas? Altaïr frowned at the thought even as they continued the climb up the mountain.

Before leaving, Altaïr had at last wrestled with himself to tell Malik about his history with the old lion. As children, their fathers were intimately tied, both having infiltrated the camp of Salah ad-Din to prove a point. Abbas' father had been captured, and under torture had given up Altaïr's father's name. The deal that Al Mualim had been brokering with the conqueror had, because of that, been contingent upon the death of Altaïr's father. All of this, he learned, when Abbas' father had confessed it to him in the middle of the night in tears, right before slitting his own throat.

Malik had been utterly shocked at the revelation, as any should, perhaps.

Altaïr explained the events following Abbas' father's suicide, running to Al Mualim, being sworn to secrecy, and watching Abbas – who had been told his father was a hero and would come back one day – slowly twist in anxiety and confusion. Altaïr had sought to ease his boyhood friend's pain, and instead instilled a hatred that had culminated in his attempted coup after the death of Al Mualim. In the thirty years since then, he held to the oldest, most conservative, most esoteric traditions of the brotherhood. Altaïr could not hate Abbas, indeed accepted the challenge of convincing the old lion of his new ideas and thoughts. It was in debate with Abbas that he could garner the support of the rest of the assassins to implement the various plans he had for the Order. But the anger was still there, and Altaïr had confessed his past in the hopes that Malik could manage the old lion to prevent him from doing something desperate.

Malik... He was as inseparable to Altaïr as Maria and his sons. He was the first to forgive Altaïr his sins at Solomon's Temple, when his sins had cost Malik so much. The two argued often, sometimes even bitterly; Malik had a harsh tongue and did not pull his punches, but through it all he was Altaïr's staunchest supporter. Where Altaïr did what he thought was necessary, Malik badgered the council into seeing the eagle's point of view. Where Altaïr cared little for what others thought, Malik played the politics necessary to keep the order from breaking apart. Where Malik's own sharp tongue made trouble, Altaïr stared down the accuser and ended the argument in simple sentences. The two complemented each other as Maria complimented him; they were a force of nature in the Order, and Altaïr more than looked forward to giving his report to the council and learning what his best friend had done in the intervening ten years.

" _Abi_ ," Darim said softly. "Where is everybody?"

Pulled out of his thoughts, Altaïr took a broader sense of his surroundings, asking the eagle that lived permanently in his mind to show him what he was missing. Age had yet to dull the graceful bird, and Altaïr's enhanced senses took in everything around him, soaking in sights, sounds, scents. The traffic was greatly reduced, there were little sounds of the approaching village, and most disturbing, there were no patrols. His son was right, where was everyone?

"Wouldn't Sef at least come to great us?" Maria asked.

"... Yes," Altaïr said slowly, looking for his second son. Married at a young age, Sef was a dreamer; free and happy in ways Altaïr could never be. Surely he would be here, with his wife and daughters to welcome the rest of his family.

His eagle was whistling in his ears, warning of danger, and Altaïr could not understand why.

"Altaïr."

The grandmaster turned to see an assassin leaning against the gate, looking up with them, his eagle whispering danger in the man's posture, the minute expression on his face upon seeing the sixty-two year old master assassin. Danger? From a _brother_?

"Your name, _assassyun_?" he asked.

"Swami. I am here to greet you."

"Where is Sef?" Maria asked. "And Rauf?"

"Ah, yes, Rauf," Swami said, a faint grin that Altaïr's eagle picked up. "I'm sorry to inform you, but a fever swept through the mountain years ago; many were lost to it."

"Oh," Maria said, eyes wide as a hand went up to cover her mouth. "How many?"

"Many," Swami said simply, "We were devastated by the losses."

"Is that why there are so few patrols?" Darim asked, eyes still sweeping about.

"... Yes, most assuredly."

"Then what of recruitment?" Maria asked. "Surely the numbers were replenished if it were some years ago, as you say. And you have yet to say where Sef is? He and his family would surely have greeted us."

Swami had yet to stand straight to greet the returning grandmaster, he simply leaned against the gate, looking up at them. His face was wrong, and Altaïr could not reconcile what his eagle was telling him and what was right in front of him. A brother...? How? Why...? He shook his head, dismounting.

"When the fever came," Swami was saying, "Sef was afraid for the children. He fled to Alamut. When you are done with the horses, I will escort you to the keep." Still he did not straighten.

The three went into the stable, Altaïr looked to his family. "What is wrong?" he asked, trying to find a way to explain his eagle. It had never been wrong before, not once, but he could not understand... "Do you sense the air? Is it not different?"

"A far cry different," Maria said, huffing. "No novice to take care of the horses, no standing at attention in the presence of the grandmaster let alone calling you by your given name instead of your title, not one hint of respectful tone in his voice. One would think him greeting a bitter rival: only barely respecting the bounds of courtesy."

"I don't like it either," Darim said, "But if a fever did thin us out, it would explain much; and I have no doubt whatever of Sef taking his girls and running if he thought they were in danger. He dotes on them almost as much as you doted on me, _Ummi_."

Altaïr frowned, watching Maria's haughty indignation and Darim's reserved acceptance. Did they not sense the ill intent? Did they not see the hint of contempt? Or was he imagining things? He _was_ getting older, minds sometimes fled the aged before their bodies followed, but Altaïr did not think himself _that_ old. Surely, he would not notice such a creeping disease? He shook his head, stilling his thoughts before he spoke. "There is a scent here I do not understand," he said softly, his tenor cautiously neutral. "I am uncomfortable with what I see and sense. Darim," he looked to his son, "We are all weary of travel, but could you ride to Alamut and see if this Swami's words are true? See if Sef is there?"

Darim and Maria both blinked, surprised.

His son nodded, though, his face serious. "You have never been wrong in matters such as these, _Abi_. I trust your judgment. I'll get a fresh horse."

"... Hurry."

Altaïr and Maria moved back outside, and the young Swami lazily shifted into a standing position and began walking up the hill, expecting the grandmaster and his wife to follow without even a glance back. The village was not as Altaïr had left it. Decades of work and new ideas and experiments had slowly brought the village of Masyaf into some modicum of wealth. Strong merchant families brought money in from the village's sheep, goats, small grains, and fresh water. The protection of the Assassins and twenty years of peace brought security and the willingness to take risks. But now the village was noticeably poor; well-made clothes were now worn and patched, sandals had disappeared, gazes were cast down instead of nodding to family and neighbors. What had happened? Had the fever truly cost so much?

And _still_ there were no brothers.

"What has Malik done to curtail the losses?" he asked, still mistrustful of the young Swami but having no other source of information.

Swami said nothing for a long time, his back to Altaïr, but the grandmaster's eagle continued to keep him on edge. He could feel the talons of his toes curling, energy spinning tighter and tighter in his muscles, and Altaïr felt the need to spread his wings and look threatening, to goad this hatchling into speaking the truth. But, at last, Swami said,

"Ask Master Abbas."

… What?

… _What_?

Altaïr stared, uncertain he had heard right, but a glance at Maria showed she shared his shock. _Master_ Abbas?

Swami led the pair into the keep, and at last he saw brothers, but even this was different. The men were languid, talking and drinking – _drinking!_ \- instead of wrapped around the ring and training. There were no children about, he could find no scholars with scrolls or books or tending to duties. Women were nonexistent, and he saw Maria looking more and more fervently for signs of her precious garden visions. The fever had certainly not done _this_ , and Altaïr was lost as to understand what had happened to Malik to make him slip so far. More still, he could not ascertain why he was being lead to Abbas instead of his best friend.

And, in fact, they were not led to Abbas, but to a journeyman's quarters in the west wing of the keep. Altaïr looked at Swami in askance.

"Your quarters," he said, a snide tone that Altaïr's eagle once again picked up.

"Our _quarters_?" Maria repeated, outraged. "This is the grandmaster of the Order! What of _those_ quarters?"

"They are occupied."

"By _whom_?"

Altaïr put a hand to his wife's shoulder, instead leveling his full gaze at Swami, narrow and penetrating. His eagle saw many things, but none of it made sense. He saw satisfaction, arrogance, contempt, anxiety mixed with anticipation, laziness and opportunity. He could not connect the pieces, because whatever the range of personalities in the Order this was a _brother_ , and _ally_ , and he could not, _would not_ , believe that this boy was an enemy. He did, however, ask a question.

"Why do you hold such contempt?"

The boy drained of color, and at last he straightened and stood at attention. His gaze was still baleful, though. "Master Abbas will speak with you in the morning. He is at a meeting right now and does not wish to be disturbed."

The door shut in their faces, and Altaïr's sharp ears heard the young assassin all but running away.

Maria muttered for thirty minutes over their arrival, cursing colorfully and pacing back and forth, scathing their accommodations, working herself up to a violent explosion. Altaïr allowed it for the moment, his mind trying to connect the dots he had been given. He looked out the windows at the dying light, hoping Darim rode hard, and watching the brothers below in disgust. "Perhaps a night's rest will help," he said softly, "it will help us make sense of the darkness in these halls." Once the sun had set, he guided the burned out Maria to bed.

He did not sleep well; the eagle that had forever been awoken in his mind kept calling his mind back from unconsciousness. Constantly he felt eyes on him though he knew for certain none watched him. At dawn he went down to the training ring to work off some of the tension. A small handful of novices appeared and watched, wide eyed, as he moved through the forms he had known since his boyhood. He had practiced even on the road; at sixty-three he was still a force to be reckoned with, despite having long passed his peak. Altaïr looked to the novices and asked if they had a question or comment. To his surprise they scurried away, his eagle-eyes telling him they were terrified to be spoken to directly by a superior. What did that mean? Why had that happened?

Maria found him, her normally fiery disposition subdued. "The gardens are empty," she said simply.

"Then we can wait no longer," Altaïr said. "If Masyaf is like this because of a mere fever, then we _must_ know what has happened to Malik. We cannot wait for a summons."

"I agree."

The two moved into the keep, the two journeymen at the door eying them warily. Malik was not in the upper study, Altaïr did not see his friend twisted around the banister, legs contorted, and so they moved to the lower library. In the center of the circular room was a circle of chairs, slightly less than half filled. At the center was not Malik, Altaïr's best friend, but Abbas. What...?

"I thought Swami told you I was busy," Abbas grunted, looking up at the grandmaster.

"This can't wait," Maria said, her English accent thick with warning. "Where's Malik?"

Abbas' face gave away nothing, but Altaïr's eagle once more warned him of danger, picking out the set of the other man's shoulders, the shift of his feet, a telltale blink. Something was not right, in fact something was _very wrong_ , and Altaïr dreaded to know what it was.

"First," Abbas said, rubbing his whitening beard. "Your report. Has Khan finally been killed?"

Maria was aghast. "You dare demand my husband the grandmaster of the order to _make a report_? Such are not the trappings of his position, and this is not the first that such disrespect has been shown."

"Be at ease, beloved," Altaïr said softly to her ear. "I do not mind."

Maria snorted. "You wouldn't," she muttered back.

Altaïr gave his report, first clinically and brief, and then in grindingly overdone detail. Abbas asked question after question, pressing points or making a show of something. Altaïr watched carefully, not only Abbas as he drew out the report to outrageous lengths, but also the others assembled. No one else asked questions, many looked to Abbas for direction, and many more looked bored. These were men of weak minds, of flimsy will and poor intelligence. Why were _they_ on the council? Where were the others? If Rauf was lost in the fever, what of the others: the aged Ibtisam, Aamil, _Malik_?

… _Where was Malik?_

At last Altaïr had enough. "I assume you have sufficiently made your show of power, Abbas," he said, soft tenor thin as energy started to seep into him. His eagle was so loud in his ears he could no longer ignore it. "Now I would ask that the hierarchy be peaceably restored. I wish to know where Malik and Sef are, what our losses were with the fever that was mentioned by your man Swami, what our stores and provisions are, how the training is going, and who was so possessed as to allow drink on the grounds of the keep. There is also the concern of the lack of presence of the garden visions, and the fearful regard novices have of fully trained _assassyun._ That is just a start of course, but what is your accounting of this?"

"Altaïr," Abbas said, his rich voice smooth, almost oily. Altaïr adjusted his footing in instinctive reaction to the tone of that voice. "You have not been here for a decade, assembling numbers and reports for something like that would take time, and those kinds of reports only go to the grandmaster."

"He _is_ the grandmaster," Maria hissed, face flushed in anger.

Abbas ignored her completely and continued talking. "I will, however, out of generosity, relieve you of some answers: Malik is in the dungeons."

" _What?_ "

"He is there and has been for the last two months because he broke the Creed. He killed your son, Sef."

The energy in Altaïr pulsed, throbbing so hard his hearing could only take in his heartbeat; there was a heated desire to see blood, and the Apple burned in the small of his back. His son was dead? _His son was dead? Malik had killed him?_ Maria gave a startled shriek and advanced aggressively upon Abbas, shouting things Altaïr could not hear because _his son was dead_...! What of Sef's wife? His daughters? What had happened? _Why_ had it happened?

Memories and images flooded Altaïr's mind: Sef's birth, the night he was conceived in Acre, holding him through the night waiting for him to sleep, drawing in the dirt, chasing his brother, dozing over his lessons, running with his arms outspread pretending to fly, fifteen and frightened as he confessed that he had created a child with his sweetheart, riding to Damascus and speaking with her family, their rushed marriage, the birth of their daughter, watching his head slowly be pulled from the clouds with his newfound responsibility, the reports of his apprenticeship in Alexandria, watching his boy come up the mountain as a man, eating with his son's family... Too much. It was too much to believe Sef ibn La-Ahad was dead. There was no way...!

And by the hand of _Malik_? That was incomprehensible! Impossible!

Malik was Altaïr's best friend, his strongest supporter. Malik came closer than any other man to seeing the world as Altaïr saw it. The friendship was forged through fire; the strength of Malik's character was evident with his ability to forgive Altaïr for his worst sin: compromising the brotherhood and being directly responsible for the death of Kadar. That terrible summer taught Altaïr his greatest lessons from the one-armed _dai_ – caution, planning, suspicion. One could not know everything, only suspect. That seed of thought lead ultimately to the confrontation of Al Mualim, and everything that happened after. Malik agreed to be Altaïr's second in spite of being uncomfortable with the responsibility, he had consistently smoothed over the feathers Altaïr ruffled in his quest to prepare the Order. It was _Malik_ whom he trusted to kill him when he studied the Apple and show signs of betraying the Order. It was not possible for two men to be closer; to even suggest...!

"What happened?" he asked, his soft tenor low, menacing. Rage was coursing through him, bloodlust was hazing his vision, but he worked himself through the emotion and leveled his gaze on Abbas, ignoring the sham of a council and putting a quieting hand on his wife. "What. _Happened_ ," he asked again.

Abbas was clinical in his recitation: "Young Swami here witnessed Malik threaten to kill your son in the course of a conversation. The next day Sef's body was found, stabbed in the back, and a bloody knife was found in Malik's room. A conclave was held, and it was revealed that Malik had never forgiven you for the death of Kadar, and was planning a coup. We assume Sef learned of it, and therefore he was killed. That was two months ago."

Sophistry. All of it.

Altaïr knew it was a lie even as his eagle warned him of the same. His body was too tightly wound, all he could manage to do was grind out a flat, "I see."

Maria was not nearly so reticent.

"Where is he?" she hissed. "Where is Malik? I demand to see him and judge him for myself."

"He is in the prisons," Abbas said, almost negligently, "But you cannot see him."

" _What_?!" Maria growled.

"He's still a brother, after all," the aged lion said, fingers rubbing through his fading beard. "Whatever else he's done, I must still hold to the Creed. Malik stabbed your son in the back, and as parents that were especially close to their children, you cannot be trusted to act rationally. I will not have him harmed."

" _You_ will not have him harmed?" Maria interjected, "Who are _you_ to give _us_ orders, Abbas? You're the captain of the guard, not the grandmaster! How dare you be so presumptuous as to -"

Abbas nodded, and Altaïr's eagle saw the barest trace of a contemptuous smile. "The conclave agreed to it," he said, his voice light. "You've been gone for years, Altaïr, and your letters nonexistent. We all thought you died, and so I was appointed _Al Mualim_. We would need another conclave to decide if your claim is still legitimate – and apparently an assessment of your skills if you performed so badly that your son and an infidel needed to eliminate Khan – and many are only just settling back to their homes. Let's give them time before we yank them back here again, don't you agree?"

Maria sucked in a heated breath, vitriol on the tip of her tongue, but Altaïr touched her shoulder again, and looked at her tear filled eyes. He had never had a gift for words, but Maria was one of the few that could see his ominously still body and read his intent.

He turned to Abbas. "We will retire for now and grieve," he said softly. "We will speak later."

"I'm sure we will," Abbas said, and they departed to the journeyman quarters they'd been assigned.

Maria, ever the firebrand, paced and cursed and sobbed as the different emotions overtook her. Altaïr left her to her grief, and instead immediately pulled out parchment and quill, writing to Darim and calling him back to Masyaf. He left the room and found a novice – he had little trust for the other ranks – and asked that he be courier. It would take longer, novices were young enough to be easily distracted and his skills at riding were anyone's guess, but a novice at least was not aware of the strife in the Order and would not second guess an order or the man who gave it.

When he returned, Maria was wailing and sobbing, and Altaïr held her, envious of her ability to express her emotions.

Sef... was he really dead? His son? His dreaming, hopeful, eternally positive son?

They spent the rest of the day in their grief, clinging to each other at night and talking softly for hours to try and discern the truth. They both believed deception existed, but neither could fathom what was true and what was not, let alone _why_.

Darim did not return the next day; Altaïr had expected that, and he and Maria silently agreed to investigate. Maria disappeared to find the garden visions, and Altaïr ghosted about the keep, watching, listening, asking questions.

Brothers whispered to each other behind his back, speaking of sympathy over the loss of his son, muttering that he must be in shock. Younger men, apprentices and journeymen pointed and named him, speculating if he was the old mentor that had created the evil known as Malik A-Sayf. He asked after that, what had created such an opinion. Three spat and walked away with blatant disrespect. Others spoke of the infamous trial, Malik's coarser qualities were blown out of proportion: acerbic words, foul attitude, grousing, deep-seated hatred of Altaïr, recitation of their many fights over the years. And Abbas leading the assault. There was talk of a dread prophecy by the disgraced _dai_ , but few wished to talk about it.

Altaïr left his investigations with a clearer idea of the center of this mystery: Abbas. This was not a series of unfortunate events, but rather a carefully orchestrated bit of theater with clear consequences. Altaïr had always known the old lion hated Altaïr, had always been shown by his eagle as an enemy, but he had never known Abbas to be clever or calculated, only opportunistic.

The garden visions, Maria said, were nowhere to be seen, and the women left were left in terror of anyone in power.

"We can speculate no longer," Altaïr said. "We must speak with Malik."

"Is that wise?" Maria asked. Now that she had burned through her anger she could think rationally. "Abbas is very secure in his seat; this would upset him."

Altaïr took a deep breath, looking out the window to the training ring below, brothers lazing about, weighing his options. There was only one choice, however. "I must know what has happened. Let us go."

There was but one guard in the prisons, sitting and far removed from the actual cells. Dead asleep, half of Altaïr blessed his good fortune while the other growled at the unfathomable lack of discipline. The two passed silently, not disturbing the sleeping guard, and moved deeper into the prison.

The reason for the distance became blatantly obvious – the entire dungeon stank, leaving both to cover their noses as they walked. "My girls were to clean these cells bi-weekly," she muttered, "What has happened?" One by one they checked the cells, finding many and varied sources of the stench, until Altaïr's eagle ears picked up the faint sound of a cough.

"Here," he said, moving purposefully to one of the cells and unlocking it.

Inside was a wraith; what was once a dark _djellaba_ was faded, tattered, and filthy. The robes beneath were in a similar state. Dark hair was matted, smudged with filth, unkempt and oily. Feces permeated the air and stained several parts of the floor; hay was moldy and rancorous, and several rats were nibbling at the squalor. Malik was unrecognizable, but Altaïr's eagle recognized him just the same. His breath caught in his throat, and for one blinding moment he thought the Apple had at last driven him mad.

His wife's startled gasp pushed him into motion, he fell to his knees and reached out, touching his dear friend's shoulder.

"Malik," he said. No response. "Malik."

A slow blink, nothing more. Was he, too, dead?

"Malik!" he pressed, shaking a bony shoulder gently. "What have they _done_ to you?" Under the grime and filth, Altaïr could see an ugly wound at his friend's temple, sallow cheeks and dark circles. Everything about him was bony, and Altaïr dreaded the thought of what lay beneath the soiled clothes.

At last the eyes moved, focusing on Altaïr, taking in the grandmaster's features slowly before widening in an open display of shock. "Alt-" His voice was thin, papery, cracked with obvious disuse and Malik burst into a fit of coughs. Maria bent over him, fingers probing and listening to the terrible noises.

"He's been sick," she said, eyes glancing about the _dai_. "How long were they keeping him here? Much longer than two months..."

Altaïr leaned forward, pained by the sight of his beloved friend. "Malik...?"

Senses appeared to be restored, at least a little, because Malik responded immediately, locking his gaze on Altaïr as if he were a phantom about to disappear. "Is this..." he tried to ask. He coughed and tried again. "Is this real...?"

Altaïr was moved to distraction to hear such a disbelieving tone. He had been gone for too long, asked too much of Malik, and to see the king of swords so shriveled, reduced to this state was entirely his fault.

" _Yes, brother_ ," he replied, his voice shaky. He smiled, hoping to be encouraging, before turning to his wife. "I will be back," he said softly, unaware of how intense his voice was. "I must deal with the guard."

Maria nodded, and Altaïr stalked out of the cell, rage driving him forward and blinding his eagle. Abbas had done this to Malik, had done this to a _brother_. Even Al Mualim had only ever locked Altaïr and Abbas down here for a month, there was no reason for this level of base _cruelty_. Bloodlust hazed his vision so strongly he almost extracted his hidden blade to be rid of such a vile nuisance that clearly knew _nothing_ of the Creed. Only thirty years of tempering his anger stilled him, and he moved from a powerful pounding gate to a more stealthy approach. This brother was barely old enough to be a journeyman, and with a deep breath Altaïr schooled his rage and lifted a fist instead, knocking the boy out. He felt no satisfaction in the violence, indeed felt nothing at all and just walked back to Malik's cell.

Gently, shocked at how light and how thin he was, Altaïr lifted Malik and shrugged him onto his back. He shared a pained look with Maria. "We'll take him to our rooms," he said. "Go ahead and prepare for him; I imagine he needs food and water, perhaps medicine."

She nodded, already a step ahead. "Here's hoping they haven't changed where the supplies are kept. I'll go to the kitchens first."

"Ask if Lady Barakah has returned," Malik called out weakly, his voice barely carrying. "She is a scullery maid there."

Maria's face slacked in shock, but she nodded and disappeared around a corner. Altaïr followed at a more sedate pace, careful not to jostle the delicate frame of the one armed _dai_. Thoughts were crashing through his head faster than lightning, too many connections were firing back and forth to be coherent. Deduction and suspicion and his eagle and _emotion_ burned through him as they vied for attention. Where did he even _start_ to get to the bottom of this? Whose blood did he need to spill to rectify this? He thought his heart would burst...!

"You are really here," Malik said, his weakened voice piercing through Altaïr's conflicts. His friend had a look of lost elation on his face, relief mixed with hope. His eyes were locked on Altaïr, drinking in the grandmaster's face, still trying to convince himself he was experiencing the truth. Altaïr almost couldn't stand it.

"How long were you down there?" he asked, passing the unconscious guard and leaving the filth and stench and degradation. He would _burn_ those cells to cleanse them.

"What season is it?"

Altaïr's lips pressed into a thin line, realizing the depths of this depravity. "It is early summer," he said in a tight voice.

"Then two years." _Two ye-_ "I don't know much of what Abbas has been doing in the interim."

"And Rauf?" he asked, containing his fury.

"Killed before the conclave. I don't know how."

"... And Sef?"

The elation immediately disappeared, snuffed out like a candle. Malik at last turned away, unable to meet Altaïr's gaze, and the aging eagle knew the truth. Sef was dead, and the grief made him stop in his tracks, fighting to keep himself contained. A hot, heavy breath escaped his lungs and he moved again.

Malik had passed out by the time Altaïr brought him to his rooms, and the grandmaster laid his beloved friend out on the bed. He sat for a moment, contemplating everything that had brought him to this point and the consequences to those around him.

Altaïr had not been an easy grandmaster, the years of his leadership had been wrought with strife, his ideas and policies generated internal conflict after internal conflict. All he knew was that he had to correct the mistakes of the past that had created men like Al Mualim, and he had to make the Order ready for the mysterious future the Apple had hinted at. A larger story was being told, Altaïr but an ignorant part of it, and he did everything in his power to be ready. He cared not what others thought, only of _being ready_.

Now, at last, he saw the bitter price of his failings. In a thunderbolt of clarity he realized how many enemies he had made in the brotherhood, how many traditions that were once held as sacred he had dismantled or rewritten. His not caring what others thought equated to them little caring what he thought and, quietly, under the surface, dissent brew. Abbas was not the center of the mystery, he was the apex, the logical – even inevitable – conclusion to the decisions Altaïr had made. And now Sef was dead, and Malik a mere shadow of his former greatness.

Filled with regret, Altaïr grabbed a cloth and dampened it in the wash basin, wringing it out and going through the process of cleaning his friend.

Malik's eyes opened slowly as Altaïr tended him, taking in his surroundings slowly, before looking once more onto Altaïr, confusion on his features.

"Our quarters, apparently." Altaïr took a deep breath and plunged into what he wanted to say. "Abbas claims I am no longer grandmaster. We only arrived a few days ago. Abbas has created a senior council of idiots; and he says that you killed Sef when he learned you wanted to supplant me."

"Altaïr-" Malik started to protest but the grandmaster – no, he could no longer consider himself that – the master assassin raised a hand.

"I am sorry," he said, "I placed burden after burden on you and never even realized it. When I first became grandmaster you told me you preferred middle management, but I dragged you into being my second, and I left you over and over to set up branches in other cities, leaving you a duty you hated. I am sorry, I never thought about you and your needs. I-"

"Shut up, novice," Malik groaned, turning his head away from Altaïr's sincerity. " _I_ should be the one to apologize to you. It is because of me that Sef-"

"I'm back," Maria had returned, sitting on the other side of Malik with a tray of materials. She left again, briefly to fetch a bucket of water. Further chance at conversation fell away as the couple worked to heal their beloved friend.

Malik was stripped of his soiled and dirty clothes. Altaïr used the bucket of water and cleaned every inch of skin; his hands shaking slightly as he counted ribs and saw little more than skin and bones. Malik had been starved. Maria trailed after his work with ointments and salves, trying to do what she could with the old blow to Malik's head. "It's such an ugly scar," she murmured.

"... It's no more than I deserve," Malik whispered, his eyes unfocused as he drifted off again.

Maria gave Altaïr a look that mirrored nearly every concern he had, and they slowly finished cleaning him, dressing him in a simple smock and slowly starting to feed him. "His body isn't used to having food," Maria explained, "We have to give him small, thin portions first. Water above all else; he's dehydrated."

It was perhaps an hour later when Malik woke again, looking at the thin millet and his changed clothes. The master assassin didn't know how long Malik's mind would remain, and need for truth was slowly beginning to supersede the need to be gentle. "Malik," he prompted, "Start at the beginning."

And, slowly, painfully, Malik told them everything. There had been a day when Malik had joked that their senior council was full of old men. Abbas used that to reveal his intentions of changing the old guard. Letters from Altaïr had long stopped by that point, no one was sure what he was doing or how things were going, but Malik realized the potential destruction Abbas could wreck. The _dai_ had immediately made Sef his assistant to protect him, and started consolidating forces. Then _That Day_ came; when Malik was talking to novices and Abbas and Swami and others burst in with accusations and locked Malik up. Rauf had visited, and Malik learned of Sef's murder. Incarcerated as he was, the one-armed _dai_ had been forced to rely on Rauf to spread the truth before the conclave and create a political block to prevent approaching disaster. That was when the "fever" struck killing Rauf and all of Malik's supporters in one bloody coup. The trial was a farce after that, the proceedings public and one-sided and ugly. Malik, in one last gambit, predicted how Abbas' future would unfold, knowing the old lion as he did and how he would react. He was struck in retaliation, and after that the cells had a high turnover for months as dissension was weeded out and presumably eliminated.

That was when Barakah, a garden vision, reappeared as a scullery maid to sneak in information and aid as she could to Malik. The garden visions had fled, Maria's stand-in killing herself before their escape could be tortured out of her, and many deliberately scarred themselves to prevent being utilized again, and some few snuck back into the keep, biding their time to strike.

Malik's tone was not clinical, nor his opinion objective. Blame, the _dai_ firmly believed, lay at his own feet.

"I knew what it was like to hate you," he said through his tears. "I empathized with that hateful old lion, and that blinded me to what was right in front of me. I was not the leader I should have been, the leader _you_ would have been, and my weakness has brought the Order to _this_. It is my fault Sef is dead. It is _my fault..._ "

Altaïr could take no more, and he quickly reached forward and pulled Malik into a tight embrace.

"Forgive yourself, brother," he whispered, "Forgive yourself as I do not need to, for you have done nothing wrong. Absolve yourself of your imagined sins, and come back to us as you were before you were left with this burden."

Malik sobbed until he was asleep.

That night Altaïr paced about the room, trying to work through the revelations he had learned. Maria felt all of her emotions at once, burned through them one after another until at last nothing left but rational thought. Altaïr, by contrast, was unable to release his emotions so easily; they built and built inside him until his body could no longer handle the energy and he burst with action – usually violence – and now he could feel the coils in his body tightening as he realized how far the world had fallen. Maria watched him, sitting by Malik's sleeping form. Grunting, he increased his pace, flicking his hidden blade in and out, pounding his feet, trying to burn through the energy before the bloodlust took over.

Abbas was behind it all. He had orchestrated this power play when Altaïr was away and Sef vulnerable, using it to remove Malik and place himself in charge. Was there anything more despicable? And what had he done with his power? Nothing! Brothers lay about, lazy and complacent, _drinking_ and full of themselves. It was only ten years! The order had many people who were old enough to remember the time of Altaïr, surely, _surely_ , they remembered the discipline, the fields of study, the practices, the training. Even if the young were corrupted, what about others? Just how many had Abbas murdered to prevent someone from standing up to the weak leadership? How were the other branches doing? Jerusalem? Cyprus? Alexandria? Alamut? He needed to know what was happening outside, he needed to be updated on the status of the Order. Who could he even go to? He growled, rage building up in him, and he knew nothing good could come of such a negative emotion. He could not burn through it fast enough. Their quarters were too small, and as a journeyman he did not have access to the ring at night. He looked to his wife, lost on what to do, unable to show his weakness and unable to snuff it out, either.

"Talk to me, Altaïr," she said. "Tell me what's on your mind."

"Maria," he said, soft tenor hoarse with built up emotion, "when we left Masyaf ten years ago, this Order was strong. But all our progress has been undone."

She nodded in the moonlight. "Abbas must answer for this."

"But answer to whom? The Assassins obey only his command now." Weak minds following weak minds... nothing good could come from this. Sef was _dead_ because of this...!

"Resist your desire for revenge, Altaïr," Maria said softly, glancing at the sleeping Malik. "Anger will prove his accusations right. Speak truth and the _assassyun_ will see their error."

"He _executed our son_ , Maria!" Altaïr growled. "He _deserves_ to die!" His blood was on fire now; the more he thought about it the more he felt right. Abbas was the source of all this, the cause of all this suffering. Altaïr may have made the rift, but it was _Abbas_ who set all of these terrible events in motion, all this blood was on _his_ hands. He was a heretic to the Creed, a heathen to the laws he claimed to follow. Wretched, cursed, damnable cur! _He deserved to die._

"Perhaps," she replied, unflappable to Altaïr's rage. "But if you cannot win back the Order by honorable means, its foundation will crumble. The heights you and Malik achieved will never be reached again."

The master assassin looked at Malik, emaciated, ruined, disgraced Malik, and he remembered the insight he had gained earlier. All at once the energy left him, the red haze receded, and he sank to his friend's side. Gently he reached out to touch the ugly scar on Malik's temple, and he gazed at the missing arm. This man had suffered so much because of him, he had no right to wish ill on others when Malik had found it in his heart to forgive Altaïr's sins. Altaïr could not afford to repeat those mistakes. "You are right," he said softly. "Thirty years ago I let passion overtake my reason. And it caused a rift that has never fully healed. This debacle is my fault as much as it is Abbas'. I must share in this responsibility and fix what I have broken."

A small hand reached out and touched his. He looked up to see his wife gazing at him with assurance. "Speak reasonably," she said, "and reasonable men will listen."

There was truth in those words. But some... "Some will," he replied, "but not Abbas. I should have expelled him thirty years ago when he tried to steal the Apple."

"But you earned the respect of the other Assassins because you let him stay."

Altaïr blinked, surprised. "How do you know this? You were not there."

She smiled. "I married a masterful storyteller."

In spite of himself Altaïr smiled, and for a time his anger abated. He drew his love into a soft, grateful kiss. Only she could navigate the overwhelming emotions of his mind and bring him clarity. Not even Malik could, and she was his partner in every part of his life. He loved her from almost the moment they met, and he was forever grateful that she continued to be in his life. He would be lost without her.

The next day Altaïr went down to the kitchens and brought foot up to feed Malik. The one-armed _dai_ was weak from his malnourishment, and Altaïr quietly insisted on helping him before he dropped a bowl or cup. Malik glared at him balefully, but the master assassin would not bow. "I will never neglect your needs again, brother," he said.

Malik smiled, softly, before muttering, "Novice."

But Altaïr had made a small series of decisions. The first of which would be to value those around him as he had not as grandmaster. Malik was at the top of that list, and he had a _very_ long list to go through and express his gratitude. When he was done, he would talk to the novices and apprentices, those who did not or could not remember life under his rule, and he would offer to teach them. Whatever his decisions as a grandmaster, he was a masterful teacher, and he hoped to engender some with his work. That would take time, as would Malik's recovery, but Altaïr apparently needed to learn humility again, and he promised himself to once more be a dutiful student. He needed to confront Abbas, as well, there was no way that could be put off, but he wanted Darim with him; the boy was a masterful orator and could persuade many people when he put his mind to it. Between his wife to steady his emotions and his son to drive the point home, Altaïr hoped that Abbas could be quietly removed and a conclave held to find someone worthy. The master assassin did not trust that he would be nominated, given the debacle two years ago, but he could help the Order in other ways.

First he needed to know about the other bureaus.

Malik fell asleep again, and he and Maria went down the mountain to talk to the villagers, find those who remembered them and learn more of what had happened in the last two years. They left Malik to rest, closing the door behind them. The keep was still an embarrassment to behold, and Altaïr was once more aghast.

"Look at this place," he muttered. "Masyaf is a shadow of its former self."

"... We have been away for a long time," Maria said after a pause, sadness overlaying her disgust.

"But not in _hiding_. The Mongol threat demanded our attention, and we rode to meet it. What man here can say the same?"

"I still cannot understand how it is that your letters never reached here," Maria said. "You wrote constantly. I understand one or two being lost, but not all of them. Malik spoke of your communication drying up entirely. How is that possible?"

"I suspect Abbas, as captain of the guard, intercepted the couriers and had them delivered to himself instead of Malik or the council. He has been planning this overthrow for years. Likely he had every detail accounted for."

"Despicable."

The pair split up when they reached the top of the village, going to their normal circles before their departure to see what had changed and what had not. The market, once growing steadily and diverse, was now half its original size. Villagers moved about their tasks with weary eyes up to the keep. Ghassan, basket weaver of the village, had left after the coup, living with his sister in Acre. Aquila, Zamil's wife and one of the strongest merchants in the village before her daughter took over, was still there and gladly took the master assassin in. From her he learned how Masyaf felt about the bloody coup, the fights that had broken out in the streets and Abbas putting swords to his own people to quell the strife. Her daughter had been killed for not doing as her station demanded. Her startlingly beautiful eyes bored into him, hard and unforgiving. "Remove that parasite," she said simply.

By the end of the day he rejoined with Maria and compared notes.

"As I walk these streets," he concluded, "I sense a great fear in the people, not love."

Maria shook her head, rubbing her temples. "Abbas has dismantled this place, and robbed it of all joy. It is abominable."

When they returned to their rooms, however, they found more horror.

Malik was gone.

Maria grabbed the first brother she could find in the halls, Swami, and demanded to know what had happened. "Where is the man we were tending in there?"

Her answer was a snide grin. "He was an escaped prisoner," he said, "Lying in wait to kill you. We removed the threat."

All color drained from her face, and Altaïr quickly grabbed her arm before she moved to violence, dragging her back to their chambers and slamming the door closed. She shrieked and cursed and slapped and kicked, knocking over furniture and finally breaking into a fresh fit of sobs. Altaïr stood at the window, pressing the cool glass against his forehead and struggling to work through his emotions before he committed blind slaughter.

They could not wait for information after that. They could not wait for Darim, either. There was nothing left to do but confront Abbas in a battle of wit, break the man down with logic and reason that neither of them felt capable of expressing, and that morning they were moving to the central halls of the keep, into the gardens and ready for... anything.

 **"** Abbas... I almost pity him," Altaïr said, trying to work through his emotions and work himself to the point where he could handle this meeting as he ought. "He wears his grudge like a cloak."

"His wound is deep," Maria said, taking his hand and holding it as they walked. "It will help him to hear the truth."

"... We may be walking to our doom, Maria."

"We may. But we walk together."

His love for her bloomed in his chest, and he at last felt calm.

Abbas was in the gardens, surrounded by Swami and other members of the inept senior council, shielded by his supporters. Altaïr and Maria turned heads at their arrival, Altaïr in his master assassin's garb, Maria similarly dressed in whites and reds, accented by her green cloak; both of their hoods were up, showing for all the world they were _assassyun_ , pillars of the faith even in the face of this debauchery. Several stepped forward, protests on their lips, but Abbas held up a hand, his face hard and unforgiving.

"Let them speak," he said.

Maria squeezed his hand.

"We seek the truth about our son's death. Why was Sef killed? Why was Malik killed?"

"Is it the truth you want," Abbas asked, glancing at his acolytes with a snide grin, "or an excuse for revenge?"

"If the truth gives us an excuse," Maria said, "we will act on it."

"What truth?" he countered, spiteful. "We already told you everything."

"Not everything," Altaïr said, his gaze heated and level. "You claimed Sef's death was two months ago, many others have contradicted you, saying it was two _years_ ago."

"I misspoke."

"Did you? When you used such a short time as an excuse from holding another conclave to ascertain my claim to lead the Order? One of your lies has been exposed, and we wish to know what others exist. Then, too, there is the issue of Malik A-Sayf. I remember all too well when we nearly killed each other as boys, Abbas, and even the twisted mind of Al Mualim only imprisoned us for a month. The rare cases of treachery in the last thirty years had specific sentences, but Malik was locked away for two years. Moreover, even traitors are treated with the dignity of a clean cell, and yet the entire dungeon was left to rot for those two years, Malik left to starve. He was emaciated, weak, dehydrated, and unable to stay awake for long periods of time. Your man Swami's claim that he was plotting to kill Maria or myself upon our return to those rooms is sophistry. That is two lies, now."

"And there is the mystery of the letters," Maria added, head held high. "We wrote frequently, too frequently for them to have completely disappeared for years as you and others have suggested. Would a search of the keep find a pile of them locked away, or were they all burned? What would questioning the couriers for the last five years unearth? Where are the garden visions, the sisters who are trained to heal the mental damage that occurs to brothers? Can you possibly explain why they are all gone, the stories of them disfiguring themselves to never be a vision again, their heartfelt desire to have nothing to do with you?"

"And why was Sef killed?" Altaïr asked. "It is impossible to conceive of Malik performing the act, and bloody knives can be planted. The events of the last two years prove to be shaky, and we demand answers."

Several men glanced about, frowning or uncertain.

Abbas was leveling a hateful glare, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, before an oily smile spread across his features.

"Surrender the Apple, Altaïr, and I will tell you why your son was put to death."

The Apple...? Why would he want...

"Ah," Altaïr said as it all fell into place, "the truth is out already!" He turned to the others. "Abbas wants the Apple for himself. Not to open your minds, but to control them. Even after sacrificing _my son_ and ridding himself of Malik, he still feels insecure with the power he has attained for himself. His paranoia has made him desperate, and he will not feel safe until the Apple is in his hands."

"You have held that artifact for _thirty years_ , Altaïr," Abbas growled, bald hate spitting from his mouth, "reveling in its power and hoarding its secrets. It has _corrupted_ you. You have stamped out almost all of our traditions in your madness."

"Yes," Altaïr admitted. "I accept part of what you say as truth." Several men gasped, murmurs rippling through the crowd. "I _have_ disbanded many of our traditions. Perhaps I moved too quickly. I take responsibility for not explaining myself better, or taking the time to make people understand. I pushed my goals forward without taking into account the feelings of others. I have professed all my life that I care not what others think, and now I understand the price I have paid for that. I will spend the rest of my life apologizing to those I have injured, but I will _not_ apologize for the decisions I made. One need only look at the Order as it was before I left to see that it was strong. Versatile. Capable. Can the same be said for now?"

"The Apple, Altaïr," Abbas said, not budging.

"Very well, Abbas. Take it."

"What?" Maria said, shocked.

Altaïr leaned in, lowering his voice. "He held it once, Maria, and it drove him mad. He cannot withstand it."

She frowned, not approving but accepting his choice.

Abbas frowned, hesitation visible to the master assassin's omnipresent eagle, and with a gesture he sent Swami to collect it. Several noticed his cowardice, Altaïr was certain his gambit would work.

But then Swami opened his mouth.

"Before I executed your son," he whispered, "I told him you ordered it yourself. He died believing you had betrayed him."

Shock.

Unbelieving shock.

Altaïr stiffened as if struck by lightning, the Apple in his hand, the world dissolving and slowing to the pace of a dream, and the words rung in his ears, over and over. _He died believing you had betrayed him. He died believing you had betrayed him. He died believing you had betrayed him. He died believing you had betrayed him. He died believing you had betrayed him. He died believing you had betrayed him._

_He died believing YOU had betrayed him._

Then, rage.

Blind, unthinking, blood-letting rage.

Light burst from the Apple, gold lines erupting into the air and then the ethers, reacting to Altaïr's fury and sending an arc of light straight into the murderer's mind, face erupting in pain and possibly crying out, but all Altaïr could comprehend was that _this man killed his son_ and he _made Sef believe Altaïr ordered it._ This man, no, this _thing_ had to _die_ and die _quickly_ and die _bloodily_ and just _die die die die die die die-_

 _"_ Altaïr! Altaïr, no!"

Maria's face filled his vision, and for a brief moment he didn't even recognize her. He didn't because her face was filled with fear, and seeing that finally brought his focus out of his bloodlust; he saw Swami behind her, dagger to his throat and inches away from slitting it, and he realized what he had done. A startled noise escaped his throat and the Apple's light faded, energy draining out of it and out of him. He opened his mouth to say... something, anything.

Swami, however, recovered his senses, took his dagger, and stabbed Maria in the back.

There was a pained grunt, a collective gasp of everyone in the garden, and all Altaïr saw was the love his life starting to fall.

His hidden blade extracted, removing the threat to his wife instinctively and cradled her, gently guiding her to the yellow grass. Maria...! _Maria...!_

She was clutching his frame, taking a gurgling breath. That meant a lung had been pierced, a clean strike to let a life linger long enough for last words. No. _No_. Not like this. Not like _this_... Please... _Please_... He reached up and cradled her head, heedless of the shocked crowd behind him; he looked in her eyes, touching her face, praying, _praying_ , that this would not be, that this could be stopped. _Not like this..._

She looked at him, Christian skin paling even further, desperate to hold on. "Strength... Altaïr..." she said, voice heavy and strained. Did death always look this painful? Were the last words Altaïr granted always so meaningless? So _useless?_ He needed more time!

"Maria..." he said, his voice watery and cracked and pained beyond imagining. Sef, Malik, now _her_? How could a heart endure it? How could he get beyond this? "Beloved..."

Her eyes closed.

Her grip loosened.

Her hand fell.

She died.

And then,

"He is possessed! Kill him! Take the Apple! Now!"

Altaïr looked up, dumbfounded, confused, to see brothers with swords drawn and edging towards him. He clutched his wife closer to him, brain unable to work, animalistic instinct creating a dangerous beast. His glare stilled many of the assassins, catching sight of his grief, hesitant to reap the consequences of interrupting him.

"What are you _waiting_ for? Kill him now before he tries again!"

Fear motivated them, moved them forward, and the only way for Altaïr to live through the encounter was to run.

Crying out in grief, he did so, shoving two brothers aside and running full tilt up the terraces, leaping over bannisters and bursting into the keep. Several assassins looked up, startled and unaware of what had just happened, but his eagle could only see enemy after enemy, and what little was left of his mind refused to break the Creed, not with his beloved begging him to be strong, and so he shouldered past them and up the steps to the upper study. Others were on his heels, all he could do was react to stimulus, and in a desperate gambit he leapt up and then through the pigeon windows, the glass shattering around him. Landing was hard, his legs were six decades old and not as springy as youth, but any pain he might have felt failed to register, he pulled up into a tight roll and sprinted around the training ring and to the gate. No one was around, all having been summoned to the gardens. How was Abbas even going to spin this...?

He shook his head, survival pushing out other thoughts, and he pelted down the mountain at top speed reaching the edges of the village when his eagle pointed to a sorely needed face.

" _Abi_!" he called out. "I got your message. What has happened?"

Not now, not now, not when his mind was closed and his heart was dead and broken and bleeding and left in the gardens. "Darim! Turn back!"

His son saw the string of assassins dashing after Altaïr, swords brandished, calls for blood, curses filling the air. "Have they all gone _mad_?"

"We have to go," Altaïr pressed, grabbing his son's arm and dragging while trying to sprint at the same time.

"Brothers! We need not fight."

" _Forget reason_ , Darim. They have been poisoned by lies."

"But _Abi,_ I don't understand... where is _Ummi_?"

Altaïr couldn't say it, couldn't make it real, but the look on his face spoke volumes. Darim tried to ask how, but survival was still overlaying all of Altaïr's priorities and at last his son began to run, the mob behind them making the how all too clear. "Was it Abbas?" he asked. "Did he kill her?"

 **"** He killed your brother, Malik, Maria, and countless others."

And all at once it was real. It hit him like a sledgehammer. They were dead. They were _dead_. His family was dead at his feet... why was he trying to run? What life could possibly exist with them dead...?

"Do not worry, _Abi_ ," Darim said, grabbing his father's arm and jerking him forward. "He will die. One day he will _pay_."

… What was the point? What was the point of _any_ of it? Why... why... _why...?_

They made it to the stables and leapt onto two horses. Darim turned his mount long enough to free the other steads, and he herded them down the valley at a gallop, he and a numb Altaïr following behind.

His eagle carried Abbas' final words.

"I _will_ have the Apple, Altaïr! And I will have your head for all the dishonor you brought upon my family! You cannot run forever! Not from us, and not from your lies!"

It was senseless babble to him. None of it made sense. _Life_ did not make sense. Not without Malik. Not without Sef. Not without _Maria._

Maria... his love...

Life was never the same after that.

* * *

_…_

_… All I had left was Darim after that, and he was the only thing that kept me alive those first few years._

* * *

Ezio dropped the key onto the desk and held his head in his hands, emotions overwhelming him; he hunched forward and weathered the storm, trying to process what he saw. Altaïr... he was not the god that Ezio had unwittingly made him out to be; his life was filled with strife, and now loss. His reign was not perfect, men did not bow to his wisdom immediately. The great mentor of old seemed to show all his flaws and failings in that memory. Why? Where was the lesson in this?

Like Ezio at seventeen, Altaïr at sixty-three had lost his entire family in one fell blow. The emotions over losing his wife and son, of his best friend... How would Ezio feel if he ever lost Leonardo? … Sofia? Her face came unbidden to his mind, and the thought of losing her was irrationally terrifying. He had only known her for six odd months, and yet she had dominated his heart so completely that the thought of being without her was devastating. Where was the lesson in this?

Ezio had left Altaïr in the memory in the exact frame of mind he was in when he _started_ this pilgrimage: lost.

How did he endure it? What was _left_ after this memory? There were still two keys to find, what could possibly be left to show...?

What was Ezio's greatest failing? Impatience? Complacence? Passion? Florentines were always passionate, but Ezio's passion drove him to moments of blind emotion: mourning Cristina or his family, his ugly behavior with Vieri de' Pazzi, his near defeat in Roma at the Vault, his leaving Rodrigo Borgia alive because of his passion and the fall of Monteriggioni that resulted in it. He envied Altaïr even as he saw the danger of his ancient mentor for his ability to control his emotions into a tight coil. Were that he had that, then perhaps some of his defeats would not have happened. But in its place would be other problems, as Altaïr had so painfully demonstrated.

Still Ezio could not understand the lesson to be had in this disk, in any of the disks he had garnered to date. What were they leading up to?

"... Ezio?"

He looked up, startled, to see that Sofia was there, Yusuf quietly closing the door and disappearing. He looked at the redhead in askance.

" _Messer_ Yusuf said you needed me. What happened?" Her face was open in concern, pulling over a chair and reaching out to touch his hand.

… How could he explain it? "I... found a story," he said slowly, trying to piece together his thoughts. "The story of a man named Altaïr ibn La-Ahad. He... he has much to do with the history of this." He gestured vaguely to the underground cistern they were sitting in. "I had known of him all of my adult life, respected him greatly, but now I see he was just a man, and I just learned... I just learned that he lost his family and I..." He trailed off, memories flitting back and forth in his mind's eye, reliving the gallows and other low points of his life.

Sofia squeezed his hand, and for the next two hours Ezio talked of pieces of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter. This. Chapter.
> 
> We'll start small: the beginning of the chapter is perhaps the most important for the development of Ezio and Sofia's relationship in that Ezio realizes what many movies, super hero comics, novels and other media have yet to figure out: you cannot have a healthy, meaningful relationship if you are hiding half your life from your partner. You cannot make the decision for your partner on what they should and should not know - that's a decision only the partner can make. Ezio's life is dangerous, and there is a body count, but Sofia needs to know that if she wishes to pursue the relationship, and Ezio at last realizes this. It is for this reason he shows her he can climb, he takes her on field trips, and other things that have yet to happen. Even now, at the end of the chapter, he tells her about his past, more conversations about his family and his loss, and likely the connection to Altair. It's the only way a relationship like this can work.
> 
> But really, that's pittance compared to Altair. Altair chapters have been excessively long - and this one is the longest to date for obvious reasons. We had a lot of ground to cover - not only in the otherwise weak confrontation with Abbas and making it make more sense but also touching on Order's Best Years. We read the last four chapters of that fic in preparation for this. We had struggled for a long time with how to fit in Mr. Bowden's interpretation of events, but a head in a burlap sack being thrown at Altair's feet was a little... I'm not sure what the word is, but in our opinion it's actually more powerful that we don't see what happened, only know that it did. This memory is supposed to have a tension, and emotional high note of uncertainty that is not felt at all in the game, nor in the novel. We thought the reason why was because it drops us right into the confrontation rather than setting it up. The dialogue is great, to be sure, but there's a difference in telling vs showing, and we thought it was necessary to take the time to illustrate how far the order had fallen, to create the tension and uncertainty rather than just saying there was. Most of this chapter Altair doesn't completely know what's going on.
> 
> But that doesn't mean Altair still isn't completely awesome. His best feature was displayed in AC1: he was shown his worst flaws and he learned. I cannot emphasis how rare that is and how important it is for human development. It's hard, painful, and in some cases utterly destructive, but that doesn't make it any less meaningful, and that's what makes a chapter like this so poignant. Even as Altair's very life is ripped away from him he's still learning, and that makes him one of the strongest characters ever written, in our opinion. His character arc is an arc that can be repeated, at various stages of life, and is infinitely interpretable. This is why he always beats out Ezio for us, and er, it kinda shows in the writing. :P
> 
> Muslim Lesson: Christianity has varied interpretations of the Bible and how a soul gets into Heaven, depending on if you're Catholic, Lutheran, Baptist, etc. In very (very, very, very) broad strokes, people get into Heaven because Jesus opened the door, and if you pray hard enough and believe in God with the right amount of fervor you get to go to Heaven. Islam has a more... is laid out the right phrase?... approach. To get to Jannah, Heaven, (again, in very broad terms) your good deeds need to outnumber your bad deeds. It's a straight tally sheet. This is why things like charity are so highly valued, because they count as good deeds: smiling, clearing the road, giving water to animals, etc are all considered good deeds. Sins are things like not being on one's best behavior for their parents, speaking ill of someone when s/he isn't around, etc. It all gets measured.
> 
> It reminds me of the old saying that there are two wolves in every soul, one good and one bad. The one that survives is the one that you feed. That is the key principle of the Islamic faith: you want to feed the good wolf more.
> 
> Next chapter: another memory is done. Time to check in on Desmond.


	13. Death of a Jannissary

Desmond woke up on the hill of the island. He looked up to the sky and saw the regular blocks that were so alien to the island were even higher up, forming gates that looked similar to the one he kept going through to dig through Ezio's memories. The partitions? He wondered if there was any way to determine how the process was going.

" _Memory sequence archived. Warning: Memory leak detected. Recalibrating Animus idle parameters._ "

He startled, surprised, and struggled to his feet. What the hell?

"I see you're figuring out how to write out commands in the system." Desmond whirled, and saw Clay standing there with his back to him, looking up at the partitions. "Was that the command you wanted to input?"

"I... what?"

Clay turned, smirking. "You figured out the fast forward command easy enough. Was that status message what you wanted, too?"

Desmond blinked, frowning. "No..." he said slowly. "I was thinking about how far the partitions have come along."

"Oh, that," Clay said, rolling his shoulders. "You're using the wrong command. But then, if you're still doing this by accident you have a ways to go." He opened his mouth to say something else, but his entire body froze, mid gesture, and his form started to dither, blinking in and out, audio overlaying distorted noises, before he continued as if nothing had happened. "But then, I was already bleeding pretty bad by the time I figured it out."

Bleeding? The Bleeding Effect, or bleeding literally?

"What happened just now?" he asked, "You just... glitched, I guess."

Clay blinked at him, smiling that half-sane smile, brows furrowed in confusion. Did he realize he was glitching? And then he disappeared in bands of light.

Fuck.

Desmond growled and pounded about the island, cursing in a couple languages he had picked up along the way before sitting on a rock. He needed to talk to someone, damn it!

" _Shaun, you feeling okay?_ "

He looked up, surprised to hear Rebecca's voice.

" _Sure, yeah, yeah,_ " Shaun replied, though who he was trying to convince was hard to tell. _"I'm fine yeah. We're Assassins, after all aren't we, eh? Why should we be surprised if one of us dies every now and again?_ "

" _Every death is a tragedy. To somebody, somewhere,_ " Rebecca said, her voice distant, lost in thought.

" _What I want to know is... is Desmond worth all this trouble, you know? What is he... is he the chosen one, is that it? Little Jimmy Special or some bollocks like that?_ " Desmond could hear the scuffing of a chair; Shaun was sitting but unable to be still, anxiety expressing itself. " _What I'm getting at, what I'm trying to say... is, is there a reason for this? Is he the reason Lucy...?_ "

God, even Shaun was wondering what this was all for. Just like Ezio. Just like Altaïr. Just like Desmond. Desmond felt lost.

" _I'm afraid not,_ " Desmond's father said, footfalls announcing his entrance. " _But what he has is rare. His genes contain high concentrations of First Civilization DNA. Only about one in ten million are so lucky._ "

" _Bill...!_ "

" _Ah_ ," Rebecca interjected quickly, trying to head off a fight. " _The Bleeding Effect. Is that part of it?_ "

" _I believe so. I wish I could say we knew about his gift earlier. But it was the Templars who realized this. And they found him first..._ "

" _So help me, Bill, if you're here to drum up more information and bulldoze over what the two of us are feeling-_ "

" _I'm not. I'm here to tell you we're leaving. New York. Gavin's setting it up now._ "

New York.

New York...

Back to work when the sun goes down. Brooklyn JMZ into the city. Transfer at Washington square. Down to the Triangle. Rising from below like the living dead, into the sun, the light shocking the eyes. Walking those ten minutes between the subway and the bar always felt so good. The sun was setting, everything cast in gold and shadows, people moving everywhere with a sense of purpose, of destination. He was born again every time he left the subway. For those ten minutes, he felt... normal. But that feeling never lasted. Some days the city was a vampire: it stole all the best moments. They came and went in seconds, then faded away, and all that was left was remembering only the worst.

Tending bar at Bad Weather... He just walked in and they handed him a shaker, took him on for the "ravishing" looks. Desmond always thought the owner had a little crush, winning smile and all that. But she was good about it, she let him have his space, smiled and treated him no different than any of the other employees. The bouncer was tough as nails, all muscles and shades and scary frowns; the janitors were the nicest guys one would ever meet. Cocktail waitresses friendly and understated compared to the customers. One of them was caught making out in the back with her boyfriend, and the owner ripped them both a new one before she pulled the waitress aside and talked about boundaries.

That was the thing about the owner of the Bad Weather. She took in the misfits and gave them just enough to go on. That cocktail waitress? Ended up married to the boyfriend. One of the janitors regaled Desmond about how she had taken him in, a druggie who was almost homeless, and harassed him until he got his act together. Bouncer was from the deep south, and it was because of her that he married his boyfriend. She always pushed with a friendly smile. It was a little slice of hope in a city that stopped and frisked Desmond four times in the span of a month because he wasn't white enough. A different janitor was arrested for lifting the till, and one of the regulars turned out to be a sexual predator. There was always something going on in that bar, and over time Desmond alternated from dreading what the next drama was to desperately wanting to know what would happen next so he could feel... something. Anything.

He had laughed at his past. He had laughed at his family; joked about everything - even the end of the world. He created a drink, called it the Shirley Templar: ginger-ale, grenadine syrup, maraschino cherry for garnish – all the ingredients for a sugar rush for the underages at the bar who wanted to feel like they were drinking, a child's drink he learned in his fist mixology class – only he added two parts gin to the drink. The pine scent mixed with the sugar made it reminiscent of the Black Hills, the farm, his youth, and using his past to make people drunk made him feel like he was spreading his misery. Gin was a love-it or hate-it drink, but everybody seemed to love it when he made it. " _Four of those!_ " they'd say. He glibly told anyone at the bar he was raised by conspiracy freaks, lived off the grid afraid of "The Man," whoever the _fuck_ that was. One of the janitors said it was a cult, that Desmond ran away before they started in on the sexual abuse, and Desmond never corrected him; he let everybody believe the worst of his family because he _wanted_ them to. He wanted the family to feel the prison they had raised him in, and tried to create a prison of his own with reputation. With denunciation. With rumor and half-truths. If the world hated the Farm, then it was perfectly justified that _he_ hated the Farm.

He was a new man, Desmond. Born again, alone but alive. Trying to forget.

Let go Desmond, he would tell himself, just let it go. Forget it.

And at the Bad Weather he could. There was a big dream floating out there. And every night he saw people dreaming it. Desmond didn't know how they did it. It took as much money to smile as to pay the rent in that place. He balked at the corporate high rollers who dropped hundred dollar tips while the college students ran their credit ratings through the roof. It was a foreign world there: Lights. Action. Mind numbing bass drum. One hundred twenty-four beats per. Twice the speed of a beating heart. God, they all looked so good. The girls in their skirts, batting eyes, the beads of sweat. Everyone was so beautiful in those flashing lights, dancing, swinging and swaying. Legs were everywhere, midrifts were easily half the female population, bras were optional for girls, shirts were optional for guys. The dance floor was one massive orgy of movement. As soon as they tired they lined up at the bar, Desmond giving them fuel, liquid courage. A few girls asked him to dance. They all looked so good, felt so good. Right up until something crashed.

A mosh pit started once, and a girl's clothes were ripped to pieces, she was groped to tears before the bouncer could get her to safety and call her folks. Sex always started in the bathrooms until the owner chased them out – sometimes half naked. Cops were quick to be called when the druggies tried to horn in, which was at least once a month. A rape happened a block away, Desmond had to walk all around the cops to get to the subway. Fights started up with all the booze killing everyone's brains, and after a while Desmond couldn't figure out why he had wanted this. Was it a dream? Or a nightmare?

Sometimes he tried to drink his worry away. Twice he stole from the bar and put himself in a stupor to try and forget the taint of the city and the fact that he was utterly alone. The hangovers weren't worth it, though.

In a bar full of so many people, Desmond couldn't help but feel invisible. In his quest to exact revenge on his family, in his trained habit of staying invisible, nobody _knew_ him. Nobody _saw_ him, not the real him, and even those ten minutes of heaven didn't stop him from knowing that if he disappeared, no one would care. He was alone in a way he had never been on the farm. _They_ at least knew his name, knew his history, and worried about him. Loved him, even if they imprisoned him. He... he missed them.

The more he had missed his family, the more he had hated himself for it. He tried to tell himself he wanted a new family. He wanted to start over.

But, walking into the bar and seeing the people drinking themselves into submission, their "good times" always ending in hangovers, drunk sex, and regrets, he wondered if this was really what he wanted.

Let go Desmond, he would tell himself, just let it go. Forget it.

Forget it.

_Forget it._

That was when Abstergo took him. God...

"I told her to forget it."

Desmond snapped to attention, seeing Clay next to him, looking at him with an intense look in his eye. "That bitch Juno. She told me outright. 'Help Desmond Miles.' I told her to forget it. Not me. Bother somebody else. But she said the message had been waiting for thousands of years, that the promise would be fulfilled. … She opened my eyes after that."

Desmond didn't know what to say at first, but at last he asked the obvious. "What did she show you?"

Clay glitched again, dithering and skipping through different poses before he turned and looked at Desmond again, running a hand through his blond hair. "Did you know Lucy was kept out of the order since she was seventeen? A sleeper, waiting to be called upon?"

Desmond froze at the name.

"There were three of us. Her, me, and William. William wanted to know what Abstergo was after with the Animus. We went to Italy; D-Day was in the beginning of February last year. I let myself be caught by Lineage Discovery and Acquisitions, and I was the new subject. 'Subject Sixteen.' " His face twisted, and he glitched again, shifting in and out of focus. "I hated-I hated-I hated that number b-b-b-b-by the end," he said through the audio distortion. "Vidic was a dick. You meet him?"

"Smarmy bastard old fart," Desmond said, loathing mirrored in his voice. "War _den_ Vi _dick_."

Clay looked up. "I like that." He smiled, slightly, something sincere and wistful crossing his face.

" 'Welcome to the Animus, Subject 16!' " Clay did a shockingly good impersonation of Vidic, and Desmond was torn between revulsion and bursting out laughing. " 'Picture the pages of history, Mr. Kaczmarek. They are tattered, blackened, almost illegible. Useless to all but dreamers. Misunderstood and misused by politicians. But what if there was a way to restore history's luster? To truly know its lessons? The Animus gives us such a chance. Perhaps a period drama is in production. Keep working and I will consider a giving you a rest. Get him back in there, Miss Stillman.' Fucking prick. I wanted to punch the shit out of him."

"Put me on the list," Desmond said in a dark voice.

"Lucy got me direct access to the Animus at night. The sessions..." Clay dithered again, his face changing as he jumped about, covered in static. Desmond watched in low quality slow motion as Clay slowly became horrified as he remembered his time in the Animus. His voice became distorted, muttering phrases in at least three different languages. "We here highly resolve that these dea-ea-ea-ead shall not have died in vain _rien ne pèse t-t-t-t-t-t-tant qu'un secret_ that this nation, un-un-un-un-under God, shall have a new birth of freedom _dai nemici guard-d-d-d-d-do io, dagli amici mi guardi Iddio_ government of the p-p-p-people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth-th-th-th-th."

And Clay collapsed in on himself, bands of light fading in the air.

Desmond was cold.

What the _fuck_ was wrong with Clay?

Was he – was his program going nuts all over again? Would that happen to him? Was he being deleted? How... what... why...?

"My dad was such a shit," Clay said, reappearing at the bottom of the island, walking around, ignorant that he was talking to himself. "I tell him I'm doing amazing work with William. It was so much better than my old job at the accelerator. I was _happy_ , I tell him. Life was good; for the first time in my life it was _good_. You know what he says to me? He asks where my monthly check to him is. He didn't listen. He _never_ listened. All he cared about was the money, he thought the Assassins were losers, that this was just free labor. Money isn't everything, I tell him. I wanted him to see how happy I was, I wanted to share it, but you know what he says? 'You have to support this family,' he says. Bastard. Fucking _bastard_. I wondered if that was why Mom left. Why she emailed me drunk to say she was leaving us, why she couldn't forgive Dad like I did. She said she didn't go out anymore, she said she had to take care of him, she said he didn't want her help, she said he was a boy like I was. She didn't want to raise _two_ baby boys. I could see why. Bastard. He wanted to be taken care of and he refused any help to make him self-reliant. _Bastard_."

He disappeared again, and reappeared behind Desmond, once again changing topics. "I didn't understand at first. What Vidic wanted. They figured out I was descended from some guy named Ezio Auditore, one of his zillion bastards, and all I heard was to forward all intel about the Apple."

Desmond said nothing, only nodded, afraid of somehow making Clay glitch again.

"I asked him, you know. 'You really want me to answer that question, Mr. Kaczmarek? If I did, you couldn't reasonably expect to be released at the end of this experiment.' That was when I really started to think about getting out. Vidic was a dick, but his threats weren't exactly as subtle as he thinks he is."

"No," Desmond agreed. "Subtlety was never his thing." He had his own dark memories of the smarmy old man, but he kept quiet, trying to see if Clay was leading to something before he glitched out again.

"I started to get scared, after a while," Clay was saying, looking at but not quite focused on Desmond. "My late night hacking in the Animus, plus the sessions during the day, started to give me weird readings. I was starting to bleed, too, and Lucy didn't say anything. Oh, she was nice enough, she dutifully dug through the archives while I was looking through the codebase; she told me not to stress, but she never... I don't know... looked out for me."

Lucy? Not look out for someone? That seemed out of character; she had bent over backwards for Desmond. But, then, she held the weight of Sixteen – Clay – on her conscious. Maybe she didn't realize her mistake? But surely she showed _some_ compassion...

Clay started to dither again. "I got word out to W-W-W-William – it was a brilliant bit of coding, I must say. He told me to trust Lucy, that we were a team. It was after that I found Juno. And Adam a-a-a-a-and Eve. That memory was a trip, I'll tell you, but Juno, she was a domineering bitch, and she showed me a hell of a lot more than th-th-th-th-th-those two. It all kinda blurred together after a while, you k-k-know? She showed me all the comb-b-b-b-binations, all the calculations, all the determinations in order to get to you, and then she t-t-t-told me to help you." Desmond shivered, eyes doubling in size. "I saw it a-all. What had been. What would be, could be, might be, and will be.

"And she showed me what happened to L-L-Lucy."

"Lucy? What happened to Lucy?"

But Clay's program was too corrupt, it couldn't continue, and it collapsed.

Desmond waited, hoping Clay would show up again, wanting to know what Juno had shown him about Lucy, wanting to understand what _he_ had seen, wanting to know if it was true, if Lucy had really...

But he never appeared again. All that was left was a small audio loop.

" _Your eyes are now open. Help Desmond Miles._ "

And then, Clay: " _I will._ "

It was too much for Desmond to take, and he ran to the gate of Ezio's memories.

* * *

_Excellent news, Claudia. I now have a name: Manuel Palaiologos, nephew of the deposed Byzantine Emperor Constantine. I have few doubts that he is the man leading the Templars. There is a complicated web of machinations about the man: financing underground markets, connections to Templars in Rhodes, which I hope previous letters have apprised you of, and most curiously – making a bid for the Ottoman succession. His reach is broad, and much of his work remains veiled; we are uncertain where his money is coming from, nor how he was able to infiltrate Topkapi and try to assassinate that promising young prince Suleiman, nor why he has chosen to favor Ahmet for the throne._

_My task now is to interrogate a traitorous Janissary named Tarik Barleti, and find the location of the Templar's army. Barleti has been selling arms to Palaiologos, and has a particular contempt for foreign goods; why I cannot say. As much mystery surrounds him as Palaiologos, and I hope the interview will shed light on these many uncertainties._

_Until then, Sofia and I shall continue our search for the one key that remains hidden. With every passing moment, I know my chances grow slimmer, and yet I cannot help but linger some days to stay an extra hour with her, to hear her voice and watch her face animate with joy as she speaks of the things that move her - her books, her city, her memories. She is a magnificent woman, cut in some ways from your cloth; she is independent and passionate and_ very _inventive in her work and... other pursuits. We have grown exceedingly close in our time together. You know better than any the affairs I have had over the course of my life, but what continues to surprise me is her persistent chase of me, rather than the other way around. I was quite taken aback when she confessed her affection, and was just as surprised to learn that mine for her was just as strong. Even now she still finds me – almost twenty years her senior – attractive, venerable, and potent. She excites in me desires I had long thought dormant – though I will spare you the details._

 _There are still two keys left to find before the library at Masyaf is opened. Time is against me, but for perhaps the first time I feel – almost – at ease. I look forward to my visits with her. Not the nights, though those would make even the girls at Rosa in Fiore flush with modesty, but rather her company. I enjoy watching her deal with customers, reading with her by the fire, discussing philosophy and literature. I have not read this much in years, and age has given me a greater perspective of the classics Lorenzo Il Magnifico always loved._ _But I have languished on softer topics for too long. There are other things I must tell you, such as the lessons the last key tried to teach me. That was a painful vision to bear witness to..._

* * *

Word came of Suleiman's return, and Ezio met with Yusuf before setting out for Topkapi.

"Ezio," Yusuf said, "I know you're fond of Suleiman. Frankly, I like him most out of all the other _shehzadem_ , but we don't know if he has what it takes. Inform him of Barleti's activities, explain that we need that map, but even if you don't get any assurances from the _Shehzade_ , kill Barleti anyway. If the Janissaries are linked with the Templars that affects Ottoman politics on a grand scale that we won't be able to undo, and I'd rather not return to the old days when we struggled to stay alive." He grinned. "I've grown rather accustomed to breathing easily once a week."

" _Si_ , I agree," Ezio said. "Suleiman is too young to even consider something like that, and I'd rather spare him that reality if he's not going to be _sultan_. Killing Barleti _will,_ however, ruin the tentative relationship I've been making with him. You won't have an in at Topkapi when I leave."

"Eh, I can live with that," Yusuf said. "I have all the time in the world to get someone in once Barleti and Palaiologos are dead."

"And I will get the final key for Altaïr's library at Masyaf."

"See? We both win! Enjoy the meeting, _Usta_ da Firenze."

Ezio left the hideout, taking the ferry across the Halich and moving south and slowly east to the gate of Topkapi. On his way he crossed several heralds, and stopped to listen for updates on Selim and Bayezid's private war. " _Shehzade_ Selim, the Ill-Behaved and soon to be chastened, has begun deploying his forces for an assault on his glorious father's position. It hardly needs saying that he'll regret his lack of filial piety most promptly. _Shehzade_ Ahmet reminds all citizens that during his Sublime Majesty's absence, all edicts issued from Topkapi must be interpreted as his absolute will. Only through order can prosperity be maintained. A serene city is a cooperative effort, and in his absence, the sultan requires the assistance of you, great citizens to maintain peace. When faced with Stewards of Byzantium oppression, let not fear steal your tongues. Bravely come forth and end their aggression."

That last touch was obviously Suleiman's efforts to curtail the abuse of the heralds to imprint Templar propaganda. Ezio smiled that the prince showed some modicum of initiative. The boy was earnest if nothing else.

He hid away his weapons on a roof not far from the main gate of Topkapi. At the palace, he entered the First Courtyard and considered his options. He had entered several times now as Suleiman's errant Italian teacher, but he did not want to abuse that cover now, when he was about to give what he assumed would be his last report to the boy. The greying grandmaster found himself sad that he was about to ruin this relationship with killing Barleti; Suleiman was bright, studious, and absolutely sincere in his desire to do what was best. That was very rare in royalty, and he hoped the boy, when he was older, would come to understand the weight Barleti's death would mean. He also hoped that Suleiman would transfer whatever disappointment and anger he felt to _only_ Ezio and not the Turkish assassins in general. That wasn't something Yusuf could afford.

And so with those thoughts in mind he instead took for the roofs. Climbing one of the stables and jumping from one roof to the next as he circled his way around the Second Courtyard and into the Third.

Suleiman was indeed there, playing chess with his uncle, Ahmet. Ezio lay across the roof, watching from a distance and asking his eagle to help discern when a good time to approach would be.

The young prince had just made a move, hunched over the board and studying it with the thoughtful intensity he so often effused. Ahmet by contrast was slouching in his chair, looking almost idle were it not for his own contemplation of the board. His brow furrowed briefly, Suleiman looked up after his move, a small smirk on his face.

"That's not a legal move," Ahmet said, pointing out what he thought was obvious as he pointed to the board.

"It is a European variation," Suleiman said softly, "Castling."

Ahmet frowned, clearly disapproving. "It's interesting," he said, "but not exactly fair when you play by different rules than your opponent."

Suleiman was looking down. Did he feel chastised? But no, Ezio saw the boy look up and give his uncle an intense, almost accusatory look. "You may think differently when you are Sultan."

Ahmet straightened slightly in his chair.

"Shall I take it back?" the boy prince asked, his tone not quite conciliatory.

A long pause drew out, Ahmet studying his nephew and Suleiman refusing to bow down. "... Suleiman," he said with a sigh. "I know it has been hard on you, watching your father and me quarrel over Bayezid's throne."

Ezio saw that was a _very_ sore spot for Suleiman, the boy _shehzade_ looking down immediately to the board as a tell to his shift in mood. He reached out, hand hovering over the castling move he had just made, uncertain if he should take it back or leave it alone. Ahmet was, in Ezio's estimation, woefully understating Suleiman's plight. The boy had confessed to Ezio that he didn't know who to trust, and that assertion clearly held to his own family as well.

"Grandfather has chosen you, and his word is _kanun,_ is law," he said slowly, softly. "What is there to argue about?" Ezio could hear the uncertainty Suleiman held in his grandfather's decision, the guilt over wanting his own father favored, the tentative nature of his words.

"Your father and I were close once," Ahmet said, reaching across the board and touching his nephew's shoulder. "I was three when your father was born. I took it as my duty to look after him – or at least as much as any three year old boy understood what 'looking after' meant. We would sneak into Aya Irini in the First Courtyard and explore it; we couldn't believe that it used to be a church with all those weapons stored in it. The Janissaries were quite cross, and our mother made her displeasure quite obvious." He made a face at the memory, but a hint of youthful mischief lay underneath. "Your father would look at all that war booty and imagine the lands Father traveled. He wanted to see the world, he was never satisfied with anything that was less than perfection.

"We both saw what happened with Uncle Cem. I was fifteen at the time, your father twelve. Korkut was eight; he didn't understand. We saw the money shifting around here in Topkapi, and we heard of the march on Bursa when Cem named himself _sultan_ of Anatolia. 'Between rulers there is no kinship,' Father said. And Selim and I looked at each other and swore an oath that we wouldn't fight over succession like our father and uncle did. Our father is a hard man, Suleiman, but he is wise; he has spent his life trying to make all of the cultures in our empire live together in harmony. I cannot say the same of Selim; he's too hot-tempered, too quick to judge. My taking Karaman led him to believe I was going to kill him in spite of that childhood oath, that was what made him try to take Thrace." Ahmet sighed. "It has already been decided that I will inherit, I was, I _am_ , trying to be a good _sultan_ , but your father was too quick to believe the worst in me. His cruelty and ambition have made-"

"I have heard the rumors, uncle," Suleiman said, softly but firmly. No child wanted to think ill of their father.

"You are a good boy, Suleiman," Ahmet said, his face soft. "Of all the children in this family you are my favorite. You have the brightest mind and the most potential; I look forward to seeing you grow into your position at Kefe. You'll serve the empire well, and it's a shame you weren't my son instead of his. I have deep affection for you."

Suleiman, however, kept his head bowed, unwilling to reply.

"... Well," Ahmet said, giving up for the moment. "I have a meeting with the viziers soon. Shall we continue another time?"

"Whenever you like."

Ezio waited another ten minutes before he lowered himself into the personal courtyard of the palace and approached the _shehzadem_. "You uncle seems quite fond of you."

Suleiman looked up, startled. A dozen questions flittered across his mind; Ezio had been gone for almost two months, but at last he sighed and leaned back against his chair. "My uncle was right about one thing: my father has high expectations of all of his subordinates, and that includes his sons. There are many, _many_ sons of any given _sultan_ ," he said slowly. "So many, in fact, that none of us have a special relationship with him. My father would not recognize me from any of my brothers. In spite of that, however, I cannot help but wish my father good fortune, even after... recent events." He frowned, looking away. "Is it wrong to resent such a man and still wish him good fortune? I know that I am the center of this conflict, that my very presence has made my father and uncle fight. I... do not know what I should do. "

He was so soft-spoken, his gaze low and quietly hurt, that Ezio thought of Sancia, and Sila, and Kasim when he killed the wrong man, Vecellio after the fire at the inn; Suleiman was trying to live with consequences that put the burden of guilt on him, and Ezio pursed his lips. He was acutely aware that he was a foreigner here, and that he had no right to interfere with politics here like he did in Italia. Suleiman, despite his clear feelings of guilt, was _not_ the cause of the conflict, but rather the flashpoint of a conflict that had been brewing since Selim and Ahmet had been born. Even Ahmet did not think Suleiman responsible, but rather his own conquests. This was the trap of inherited power: when one leader had multiple heirs, ambition and lust for power turned succession into conflict, even war. Was there any government in the world that did not have such a trap? Ahmet, too, seemed to hate the system in which he was forced to play; Ezio had seen honest affection for Suleiman, and his eagle perceived that his closeness to his brother was the truth. He looked at the young _shehzadem_ , and took a risk.

"This conflict is not your fault," he said after a very long pause, "But your responsibility as _shehzadem_ requires you to do something to end it even that much sooner. Your work with the heralds is a promising start."

Suleiman looked up, eyes wide and making him look very young. Then he flushed, slightly, at the praise, his humility showing through. "I am only doing what I can," he said.

"That is all anyone can ask."

At last the boy took a breath, and Ezio watched the young prince put away his pain. "I assume you have news? Of the Byzantines or the Janissaries?"

Ezio nodded, taking a deep breath. "Tarik Barleti has been selling guns to a local miser: Manuel Palaiologos."

Suleiman's face displayed recognition. "Palaiologos..." he said softly, "that is a sad sound. The last Byzantine Emperor was Constantine Palaiologos. If his heir is arming a militia of some kind, this entire conflict over succession will escalate. Tarik... why would he do this?"

Ezio pressed his lips again. How much could he say? "The Byzantines are making a bid for the successor of the Ottoman throne; Palaiologos seems to want Ahmet to inherit the throne, I assume because he will be easier to control than your father Selim. The Janissaries are arming them, presumably so that they can march if Selim defeats Bayezid. Barleti knows where the rifles are headed. If I find him first, I can follow the weapons straight to the Byzantines."

Suleiman took the information in slowly, his mind racing as Ezio posited the theories he and Yusuf's assassins had so carefully put together. He rubbed the tip of his chin slightly pacing about, working through the news. " _Guzel_ ," he said at last, looking up to Ezio and locking his gaze onto the older man. "Get the information you need," he paused, "then kill him."

Ezio froze, surprised to hear such words from the boy. "Are you sure?" he asked. "You told me Barleti and your father were close friends, Suleiman."

The wide eyes, the flush of youth, were gone. In its place was inner strength, the confidence that came from making a decision. This was the Suleiman who had interviewed Tarik Barleti, who commanded the Janissaries immediately after the attack. "This is true," he said calmly, "But such naked treason against my grandfather deserves death. I appreciate your advice but this conflict _is_ my fault, and I will do what is necessary to stop it. You were right, any position I end up taking in this empire I must lead by example; and _I_ will not tolerate people who will exacerbate the tensions of this family."

"... Understood," Ezio said, bowing slightly and backing away to do his work. "The Janissaries are stationed here, I expect to report back shortly."

"I will be waiting."

In a tiny corner of Ezio's mind, he felt himself be _very_ curious to see what kind of _sultan_ this boy would be, but such thoughts would not help him now, and he called on his eagle to help him as he left through the Felicity Gate and made his way to the barracks.

Barrack life here was much like barrack life anywhere else, and Ezio had spent enough time with Bartolomeo to understand the rhythm of it. The Janissaries were separated into battalions called _orta_. Different squads were drilling and sparring, while others attended to the basic chores one expected for running a barrack, keeping it clean, polishing swords, etc. The Janissaries, after all, were all servants to the sultan.

As Ezio slipped along the roofs, he noted the different types of uniforms he had observed over his time in the city: the _sekban_ irregulars, _cemaat_ frontier troops bringing reports from the far flung reaches of the Ottoman empire, and the _beylik_ that Barleti headed as bodyguards of the Sultan. The _beylik_ had different styles of uniform as well, be it the standard masked bodyguards or the less armored riflemen. But all bore the tall hats called _bork_ , representing the sleeve of blessing from their founder almost two hundred years prior.

There were approximately ten thousand Janissaries in the Ottoman Empire, the vast majority close to Constantinopoli and the rest with Bayezid as he fought his son Selim, give or take. The _beylik_ uniform would be the type Ezio would need, as it would make the most sense for looking for Barleti. The Janissaries, as servants of the sultan, did much of their own upkeep, but did they do laundry? Hmmmm.

Ezio explored the palace from above, looking for any who carried bins of clothes in need of washing, until he found a secluded well where a laundress was pulling water. And there was a Janissary uniform. Ezio wouldn't know which kind until he got closer. So he climbed down and once more played the lost Italian. Ezio had no trouble sweet-talking the woman and casually asking if she did Janissary laundry as well which lead him to where he needed to be.

With the proper uniform now, one that fit snuggly without being constricting, Ezio took a few minutes to practice walking around with the extra weight on his head of the _bork_ and the odd feeling of the swaying fabric near his neck. The _bork_ required better posture than he normally practiced, holding his head steadier to prevent it tipping, and he found he was reverting to the posture and walk of a nobleman. Oddly appropriate.

Properly attired and hidden blades strapped on, Ezio moved with purpose to the Janissary barracks in the First Courtyard. As he walked around, he wondered why so many _orta_ were here. Shouldn't the battalions be helping Bayezid? Why keep them here? The numbers were larger than what he had thought. Even _beylik,_ who were the bodyguards of the sultan, _weren't_ with the sultan. Granted, some needed to protect the sultan's family, but this many? Or was this only a fraction of their strength? And all of the standard _orta_ of military prowess that weren't out on the field of battle were puzzling.

Ezio maneuvered around the barracks, appearing to keep busy as he attempted to find out where Barleti was.

"Selim understands our plight," one Janissary, with the faint touches of an accent said. "The Byzantines always sneaking into our city, the Mamluks so rude to our southwest, and those new upstarts the Safavids. Only he has the courage to face these threats."

"You speak truly," the Janissary he was talking to replied. Ezio sat down and back, appearing to rest. "Selim is a warrior. Like Osman who founded our empire, and Mehmet who conquered this city. He may have a temper, but he is firm and strong."

"Yes, so _why_ has our Sultan chosen a cat like Ahmet over our lion?" the first Janissary scoffed. "Bayezid is indeed the Just, but Ahmet hesitates and cannot choose wisely. Look at that debacle with Shakulu. Ahmet spent more time trying to convince _us_ he was the true successor than fighting his enemy!"

"Ahmet shares the Sultan's calm temperament," the second sighed. "He is more scholar than warrior. They are too much alike, I fear."

"But that is something else," the first continued to grouse. "Why does Ahmet linger in this city? He _knows_ the Sultan would never allow him in the city if he was here."

"He is like a moth hovering around an open flame. Waiting for his father to perish so that he may step to the throne. He is already the closest to Topkapi, what more reassurances does he need? He is like a spoiled child."

"But did you hear what he's done now?"

"No."

"Ahmet offered Tarik a sum of money in exchange for our loyalty," the first accented Janissary spat.

" _Allah belasını versin_ ," the second growled. "God damn him. What did Tarik do?"

The first Janissary smiled, twirling his mustache, then stroking his bare chin. "He spent half the money on horse feed and sent the rest to Selim!"

"Hah! That _is_ our Tarik!'

Ezio frowned behind his mask. That _didn't_ sound like the Barleti he was about to kill. The Barleti he was after was betraying the Sultan to favor Ahmet. Suleiman had once mentioned that the Janissaries supported Selim over Ahmet, but were these Janissaries simply unaware of what Barleti was really doing, or was Barleti spreading rumors like a Borgia to make himself seen as good?

Ezio decided he had "rested" enough and kept wandering around. Where were the offices? He avoided the drills, looking like he was on an errand and not to be interrupted, and crisscrossed the compound. Most were the actual barracks, where the Janissaries ate and slept – unsurprising given how many were staying in the city at the moment.

An hour later, Ezio was sitting down in the mess hall, in a dark corner with an empty cup in front of him to appear as he'd already eaten. He still kept his mask on, and avoided looking around. Once any of the Janissaries saw his beard, which they were forbidden to wear, they'd know he was a pretender. He tried instead to listen and find who was heading to an office of some kind so that he had a better idea of where he needed to start looking.

"Any news from the north?" asked a deep throated voice at the table behind him.

"Selim's forces have fallen back to Varna. Heavy losses I'm told," a higher voice replied.

" _Bok_ ," the deep voiced one swore. "But incredible, isn't it? I pray for a swift conclusion. The longer this drags on, the worse it will be."

"Yes," the lighter voice replied, "but it which direction?"

The Janissary shook his head. "I cannot say," he said with a heavy sigh. "My heart will always side with our Sultan, his word is law, and he has placed Ahmet closest to our city. Thus it must be. But my head hopes for Selim, who is a far better ruler."

That was interesting. The Janissaries were divided? Not in preferring Selim, they all preferred a warrior, but the conflict of believing in the Sultan and knowing who they preferred made some doubt and question. Perhaps those were the ones Barleti would be using. One confused could be convinced more easily than one firm of mind.

The conversation turned to a different topic.

"Have you met Selim's young son, _Shehzade_ Suleiman?" the higher-toned Janissary asked.

"Not personally," the deeper voice replied, "but I _have_ seen him. I know he is a remarkable boy. One need only look at all the scholarly work he's done in the short time he's been alive."

"Hehe, you _would_ prefer the scholar in him."

The deep voice scoffed. "I enjoy one who is wise and scholarly, like Sultan Bayezid and Suleiman, but I _don't_ prefer Ahmet over Selim for his scholarly pursuits. I don't prefer Ahmet at all. But Sultan Bayezid must see something in him that I don't."

"Still, Suleiman is not a boy, anymore, but a capable young man. With a magnificent mind."

"But does he take after his father? If he's as firm and steady..."

"Perhaps," the higher tone answered. "Though I suspect he is another sort of man altogether. You know he befriended a mere slave as a child? They met in the Manisa palace in Anatolia when they were both students."

"Now _that_ is a mark of a good leader in the future. But Sultan Bayezid has chosen Ahmet. Why not Selim? What does Bayezid see in him that we do not?"

"I wonder," the lighter voice replied. "Sultan Bayezid is a good man, and a kind Sultan... But he is old, in his sixth decade. I wonder if age has made him lose the fire that made him great."

"No, no," the deep voiced Janissary replied. "He is still a fighter. Look at the army he has raised against Selim."

The higher voice shook his head. "This is further evidence of his decline. To take up arms against his own son? Shameful."

"Do not bend the truth to match the contours of your passion, _efendi_ ," the deep voice said stiffly. "It was Selim who attacked our Sultan. He would not go to his new province and stay. Disobeying the Sultan _is_ shameful."

" _Evet, evet_ , but Selim did so for the glory of the Empire, not himself. His son was slighted because Ahmet behaved like a spoiled brat, not liking that Suleiman was closer to Topkapi than himself."

Ezio moved on. For all that the Janissaries presented a unified front, it was clear that they were divided among themselves. They supported the Sultan unquestioningly, but they _did_ question who the successor to the throne should be. How did this play into Palaiologos wanting to have a say in who was next on in succession?

At last, Ezio found the offices, a more modest building in Topkapi's splendor. It was easy to stalk through, listening for where Barleti's office would be. Even if Barleti wasn't there, Ezio could lay in wait. It was up on the highest floor, with a small view of the First Courtyard, no doubt a source of much pride for the head of the _beylik_. The room was guarded, so Ezio found his way to a window that he opened and hefted himself out of. He shut the window behind him, cursing the stone so cold on a cloudy February day. But he edged his way along the wall to Barleti's window, which was open a crack. No doubt the room usually ran warm, given the large fireplace Ezio glimpsed as he edged closer.

Barleti was at his desk, facing away from the window and towards the door. This was perfect, Ezio could sneak in in one swoop and kill him. Ezio checked his footing and tensed his muscles, but then cursed as the door open.

"Tarik," a Janissary greeted. "A message for you."

"Perfect," Barleti replied. Everything was silent as he read, and Ezio held himself as comfortable as he could as he waited. If this meeting lasted more than ten minutes, he was going in no matter what. "Ah," Barleti sighed in satisfaction. "The rifles have arrived in Cappadocia. An underground city, Derinkuyu." Barleti said, "where Manuel has garrisoned his army."

"And our men," the Janissary asked, "are they still with him?"

" _Evet_ ," Barleti replied. "They will contact us when the Byzantines decamp, then we will meet them when they reach Bursa."

"Everything is falling into place, _efendim_ ," the Janissary said softly.

" _Evet_ ," Barleti replied, his voice sad and longing. "For once."

Ezio mentally swore. The Janissaries meeting up with the Byzantines? Who would they march against? Or, more pressing, who would they march for? Was Palaiologos making a bid for the throne himself? This _couldn't_ happen. The chaos and death it would spread...

The Janissary had left and Ezio, in one smooth motion, opened the window and had his blade in Barleti's back without a sound. Barleti turned, breath already becoming labored. "Ah," he sighed, slumping to the ground. "What a bitter irony. Is this the result of Suleiman's investigation?"

Ezio frowned, pulling off his mask. "You collude with the Sultan's enemies. Selling them rifles and gunpowder. What did you expect Suleiman to think? What did you expect would become of such treachery?"

Barleti gave a bitter smile. "I blame myself," he coughed. "Not for treason. I have not betrayed Bayezid, as you think. I blame my hubris." He gasped for breath. "I was preparing an ambush. _Evet_. But preparing to strike the Byzantine Templars where they felt safest. Break their hold once and for all."

 _We will meet them at Bursa_. "Meet" as in "meet in battle", not a meeting of allies. There were two ways to have interpreted that comment. Barleti's men still in Cappadocia, not allies training Byzantines, but spies to provide word. Ezio had based everything on what he'd found, but that missing piece, the lack of understanding of why Janissaries, always loyal to Bayezid, would meet with the Byzantines was now, at last, explained in a way that made sense.

It made so much sense.

But...

"What proof do you have of this?" Ezio asked cautiously. He'd suffered too much in his life to simply go on Tarik's word.

"On the desk. The maps," Tarik leaned over and coughed again. "They will lead you to the Byzantines in Cappadocia. Destroy them if you can."

Sorrow welled into Ezio's eyes as he realized that he had just killed an ally, instead of an enemy. Another regret to add to his massive pile. This man, who had done nothing but serve, deserved much more.

"You have done well, Tarik," Ezio bowed his head, the only honor he could give at that moment. "Forgive me."

"Protect my homeland, _Suikastchi_ ," Tarik gasped. " _Allah ashkina_ , redeem the honor we have lost in this fight." And at last, the man who so loved his home he had risked death to ambush the enemy, died.

Ezio held the man a moment more, laying him in a dignified manner, closing his eyes, and offering whatever prayers he could as a born Catholic for this Muslim man. They were cut from the same cloth, both working in silence to prevent hidden evils. They could have been allies. Perhaps friends. But that was no longer possible.

Such a waste.

Ezio stood, scratching his eyes briefly, before grabbing the maps and once more slipping out the window, placing it as it had been before, and going to the roof to once more get his proper clothes. He spent an hour on the roofs, cleaning his hidden blades of the innocent blood, compartmentalizing the innocent life he had just taken, his breaking of the Creed, the repercussions this action would have, the potential bottoming out of this affair. He sighed all the way down and remembered how he had felt at Masyaf, the depression that had trailed after him for so long, and the inevitable conclusion of this war. How many other innocent men had he killed? How many Borgia guards were just following orders, were good men, had families and friends? So much death... So much _waste_...

He stayed on the roofs, invisible to everyone, before slipping down to the Third Courtyard behind the Audience Chamber. Several waved or nodded their heads, recognizing him. Ezio pursed his lips and kept his head down. Janissaries patrolled normally, meaning the body had not been discovered. That would not last much longer, and Ezio quietly asked where the _shehzadem_ was.

Suleiman was on a second floor balcony, looking over more Ottoman landscaping, a book forgotten in his hands. His face was heavy with worry, and Ezio felt keen regret that he was about to add more. He softly stepped up, waiting to be noticed. The boy prince turned, taking a deep breath and leveling his gaze at Ezio. The grandmaster spoke before the boy could ask.

"Tarik was no traitor, Suleiman," he said, "He too was tracking the Byzantines."

For one agonizing minute, Suleiman stared at him, completely uncomprehending. Then, all at once, the words hit him.

"...What?" he said softly. Realization flooded through him, and his brows rose, his arms slacking by his sides and his gaze glancing down. "So did you...?" He left the phrase hanging, unable to finish the sentence.

Ezio could only bow his head, that single act conveying everything the _shehzadem_ needed to know. "I am sorry," he said, softly, unable to find better words.

The color completely drained out of Suleiman's face, and he turned away from the news, backing up and bumping against the balcony railing. "Allah forgive me," he gasped, suddenly out of breath, "I should not have been so quick to judge. _Aman tanrin... Aman tanrin_..." He started to shake, and Ezio remembered the prince's reaction after the attack on him, how he looked about to break. The Florentine stepped up and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. The boy had every right to break, but not _now_ , not when the body was about to be discovered and Ezio still inside the search radius.

"Breathe, _breathe, Shehzadem_ ," he whispered. "There is more to tell."

"What more...? What is left...? _Aman Tanrim..._!"

" _Shehzadem_ , you need to hear this," Ezio pressed, squeezing Suleiman's arm to the point of pain, hoping to pierce through the boy's internal turmoil. "He was loyal to your grandfather to the end, and through his efforts we have the means to save your city. He bartered with Palaiologos for the express reason of learning his location; your _beylik_ captain was preparing to march his Janissaries there and eradicate Palaiologos and all his supporters. I suspect he even deliberately made himself absent the night of your attempted murder to make himself appear viable to Palaiologos. All of this, he did for the _sultan_ , your grandfather, for the Ottomans."

"Ah, Tarik..." Suleiman moaned. He bent his head low, trying to process it all. The signs of breaking slowly faded, Suleiman working through his shock and emotional tailspin as quickly as he could. "Ah, _Tarik_... You should not have been so secretive. What a terrible way to do a good thing. Why did he say nothing?"

"Because, like you, he did not know who to trust," Ezio said, still holding the boy's shoulder, hoping he wouldn't begin to tailspin again. "We still don't know how the Byzantines were able to access Topkapi in such numbers as we found that night, and even in the _beylik orta_ there was disagreement over the right to succession, debate over hearts and heads, trying to reconcile preference with Beyazid's word. Barleti – Tarik – saw the division even in his own men and, knowing the Byzantines were making a bid for the throne, did not know who he could trust. It is hard for a man to find trust when all shadows potentially hide traitors, enemies, and daggers."

"Ah... Tarik..." The sun was setting, however, and _bilal_ everywhere were calling out the _athan_ from their minarets. Ezio's eagle saw Janissaries had shifted from pacing to running; the body had been discovered and he did not have much time before Topkapi was sealed off. Pursing his lips, he pushed. "The weapons were taken to Cappadocia," he said, his voice a little more urgent. "Can you get me there?"

"... Yes, of course," the boy said absently, mind still far away, but he managed to pull it back. He nodded, straightening, and nodded again. "Of course. I will arrange a ship to take you-"

But Ezio held up a hand, his eagle warning him that someone was approaching, and he quickly backed away into the shadows of the balcony, tugging at his hood and becoming invisible in the dying light.

"Suleiman! Suleiman, I have been set up, and made to look a traitor!"

Ahmet strode onto the balcony, steps loud and erratic, face black as thunder. "Do you remember Tarik, the Janissary?" His voice was a little too loud to be polite, and the anger he felt was obvious to a blind man. He pressed on even as the still reeling Suleiman tried to answer, "He has been murdered! It is no secret that he and I were at odds. Now the Janissaries will accuse me of this crime – I am the most likely suspect, and they will use that as leverage to get my bid for the throne cancelled! I cannot believe it! Who would be so devious?"

"... This is terrible news, _Amca_ ," Suleiman said slowly; caught flatfooted, he was still trying to school his features properly. His face was too pale and his manner still displayed that he was upset over something. Ahmet was for the moment too upset to notice, and time was all Suleiman needed. Nodding, Ezio slowly stepped out of the shadows to depart, adjusting his stance.

"When word gets back to my father, he will banish me from the city!" Ahmet was saying. "He favored Tarik more than any other Janissary, he even allowed him to smuggle that concubine out of the harem, he won't stand for murder! In _Topkapi!_ I – Ah," he said, his anger screeching to a halt when he at last saw Ezio. The grandmaster had pulled his hood down, straightened his clothes and stood at his full height, the picture of a scholar; on his face was a slightly lost look, as if he didn't quite understand all the Turkish being thrown at him.

"Ah," Ahmet repeated, flushing in embarrassment. "Forgive me, _yeğen_. I was not aware that you had a guest."

Ezio looked to Suleiman, and deliberately asked, " _È un tuo parente?_ "

The boy stared at him blankly for a moment, before shaking his head as he caught on and smoothly stepping up to Ezio. "Forgive me, _Amca_. Where are my manners? This is Marcello, one of my European advisers in Kefe. Marcello, _questo è il mio zio,_ Ahmet."

Ezio bowed perfectly, even at his age. " _Buonasera,_ " he said politely. Then, thickly accented, he said, "I'm still learning Turkish."

After a beat, Ahmet inclined his head. "Marcello," he said courteously – though he used no honorific, showing his contempt for Ezio's position. "My _yeğen_ and I have a private matter to discuss." His tone was a complete dismissal.

Ezio bowed again, backing away slowly, but Suleiman again stepped up, reaching out in a gesture to hold the greying Florentine.

"As I said," he said quickly, "there will be a ship waiting for you when you wish to leave. I will have a Janissary escort you out." He quickly made a gesture, a servant summoning a guard.

The boy was a fast learner, and his color had returned, a little, and his mannerisms were more in control. He had already adapted. _Bene_. " _Grazie, mio principe,_ " he replied, bowing far lower to Suleiman than he did Ahmet. The older prince frowned at the slight, but he was already backing away, bowed, before slowly turning.

"We will track down the perpetrator of this crime, _Amca,_ " Suleiman said softly, drawing his uncle's attention. "Have patience." And, in a brilliant move, he touched his uncle's shoulder, turning him from Ezio.

Ezio disappeared before he could hear more, the Janissary guiding him through the complex and out of the palace. The grandmaster watched the armored men run back and forth, signs of chaos upon finding their captain assassinated. Ezio kept his head down, uncomfortable with seeing the havoc he had wrought. As soon as he was able, he took to the roofs and pushed himself, running full tilt over the roofs to try and numb himself to the guilt he felt. Catching his breath on the ferry over the Halich, he walked through night prayers to the hideout. Azize, devout Muslim, was praying in the abandoned mosque with other members of the brotherhood, her voice as _imam_ beautiful and heartbreaking in Ezio's mood. He watched for a time, eyes closed and listening to the chorus of voices, the devotion, the dedication, and the solace of faith. He suddenly wanted to see Sofia... but not tonight.

He went underground and navigated the tunnels to the cistern. Yusuf was talking to his den leaders but broke away quickly when he caught the look on Ezio's face.

"You're not covered in blood," he said softly, leading the Florentine to the library. "What went wrong?"

"... We did."

Ezio explained Tarik Barleti's last words, the work the Janissary captain had done to track down and eliminate the Templars, and his last wish that the _suikastchi_ finish his work. He also passed on Suleiman's order to have Barleti killed, and his reaction to the news, as well as Ahmet's. God, with one death he had wrought guilt to a promising mind at far too young an age, left an inept but determined prince fearing exile, and removed leadership from an army that needed to function for the Ottomans. Could this be any more of a disaster?

Yusuf was serious, running his hand over his beard and greasy hair. "I agree with _Shehzade_ Suleiman: what a _terrible_ way to do a good deed. _Bok. BOK._ The Janissaries will be breathing down our necks for this instead of being relieved a corrupt leader has been removed. We'll have to go to ground – we haven't done that since before the Ottoman's came. Do the old tunnels still work? _Sikme_ , do the new dens have their tunnels complete? I need to talk to Tahir and Kadmus. Those last two Templars we haven't killed yet, the ones on that list Kasim found, they may try retaliation for this. I need to get a letter out to Bursa, and then there's the novices and apprentices, I need to hold a complete meeting, cram _everyone_ down here to explain it." The Turkish mentor paced about, ideas flitting from sentence to sentence as he started to plan for the further repercussions Ezio's deed.

" _Mi dispiace_ ," he said softly. "I did not intend to bring this much trouble on you."

Yusuf looked up, surprised. " _Usta_ , _I_ was the one that gave you the order to kill him. Don't think the blame lies entirely at your feet. Besides, I owe you a debt I'll be spending the rest of my life paying, remember? A hiccup here and there won't cut into that too much." He grinned, once again affable, and slapped Ezio's arm. "We'll be fine, _Usta._ Just give me an hour to think."

At dawn the next morning, right after prayers, word went out and the entire brotherhood was gathered to the underground cistern. The children and novices squirmed with energy, the apprentices looked nervous, and the journeymen were preparing for the worst. The full assassins, the den leaders, already heard what had happened. Yusuf reviewed the exercises, sixty years old, and went into intimate detail over what the new dens were expected to do. "We need to understand that we can't blame Templars for this," he said, "We can't blame Byzantines, we can't blame Palaiologos, we can't blame _Usta_ , we can't even blame Barleti. This is what they mean when they use the word 'tragedy.' No one is at fault, and feeling otherwise will only make things worse. Our primary focus is keeping a low profile; we don't need to upset the applecart any further. Work on the softer projects: feeding the poor, educating the urchins, trying to keep crime low. Track the Byzantines that are left in the city, but kill them only if you know for certain you won't be seen and can dispose of the body quickly. Better to let people think they just disappeared."

After the meeting Yusuf pulled Ezio aside. "What do you need from me?" he asked.

"Cappadocia, the city of Derinkuyu, do you know where it is?"

" _Evet,_ I forgot you're not a native here. It's smack in the middle of Anatolia, Asia Minor to you. It's about seven hundred kilometers from here, east of Tuz Golu, that landlocked lake. Here, let me get you a map." Yusuf educated Ezio on the terrain between Constantinopoli and Derinkuyu; it was a twelve to eighteen day journey, depending on weather and sunlight. That meant pack horses, supplies, to say nothing of getting into the city – which Ezio marveled when Yusuf explained it was _underground_ – and finding the men that Barleti had hidden inside. The maps the _beylik_ captain had bequeathed to Ezio had given him a list of names, one of which a woman's but no descriptions or passwords. Contact would be difficult.

"It's going to take time to prepare," Ezio said slowly, lists compiling in his head.

" _Evet,_ I agree," Yusuf said, "Especially since we don't know what sea captain Suleiman is going to assign you. It's easier to sail the Black Sea for a while before docking at Sinop or Samsun. It will cut out a few days. Samsun can be done in just over a week if you push your horses."

"A week is better than almost three," Ezio said. "It's the end of February as it is, I'd rather not make this pilgrimage longer than I have to."

"That's right, Palaiologos has your last key – we think. Did we ever learn how he found it under Topkapi?"

"No, a mystery I hope to have answered when he and I finally meet."

"Still, it will take a week at least to get everything arranged: horses, food, supplies, getting the word out to Bursa so they can use their couriers to let everyone else know. I also need to figure out who I can spare to escort you. You'd get lost without someone who knows the terrain."

"I have every confidence in you," Ezio said.

"Ah, maybe when this is all done, I'll take a nice, long, relaxing vacation. I've been running since the earthquake, it might be nice to take a nap that lasts about a year."

Ezio smirked. "I can suggest several places in Italia where one can 'rest.' "

Yusuf shook his head. "Eh, I don't think I'll ever leave Istanbul, _Usta_ , why would I leave _jannah_ to try and find it somewhere else?"

"To each their own," Ezio said, though with Sofia in the city he certainly could picture the metropolis as paradise as well.

The following week proved busy indeed. The Janissaries were indeed hunting into every nook and cranny of the city to find who had killed Barleti. All Assassins kept as low a profile as possible. Hooded robes were discarded for the everyday disguises. Den leaders kept to their fronts, apprentices and journeyman staying close to the dens and only going on some sort of mission if and only if it could be disguised as an errand for whatever front the den used. Yusuf was working on a plan to get some of the Assassins out of the city for a while to visit neighboring cities and get training in other dens for a few months. It was chaotic as logistics were tackled with swift decision making and then with quick adjusting.

During this crazy week, Ezio also started to get ready for his long trip to Cappadocia. He tried to imagine what supplies he would need for the trek from the nearest port to the buried city. His last attempt at wandering the countryside had ended with the Byzantine Leandros leading him on a merry chase through a blizzard. It may be slowly turning to spring, but the days were only almost warm.

It was on a visit to the Kapalicharshi, looking for travel food and possibly an extra blanket to ward off the cold that Hayri, the leader of the thieves, found him and pulled him aside urgently.

" _Usta_ ," he hissed. "You have a problem. One of your novices you sent to me for training has found your den leader in grave danger."

"Where?" Ezio asked, hiding his purchases in a shadowed corner.

"Somewhere here. We lost track once they entered Kapalicharshi," the thief replied. "The Templars have been chasing after her all morning. I have sent the novice to get others from the den."

" _Teshekkürler_ ," Ezio replied. "Find the Janissaries as well. They won't care for Byzantines in Kapalicharshi."

The Janissaries would be a risk. They were on the lookout for who had killed Tarik, but whether they were looking for Assassins or not was hard to say. From what they'd learned the past two days, the Janissaries had no clue and were shaking down who they could. There were rumors that they might be starting to look for hoods, but nothing conclusive yet.

As Ezio raced through the maze of halls, he hoped that Sila was _not_ wearing her hood. Ezio did, but he was a foreigner and thus, more easily recognized. His hood was more useful for anonymity than not. He kept his eagle alert, looking for any clues. And, as he approached a throng of people far thicker than any other part of Kapalicharshi, he knew he had found what he needed.

Sila was in her Islamic clothes, meaning the Byzantines that were fighting her (two pikemen) knew her face to look for her outside of her Assassin's hood. And only one person had been up close enough to see her in a hood and recognize her as an Assassin. Damat, the vizier. The Templars were retaliating indeed. Sila was putting up a fight, a butcher knife in her hand, but she lacked the reach to truly be able to be on the offensive. Her hijab was already askew and she had slit her skirts to get more maneuverability. She dodged and ducked the pikes with the speed that made her almost untouchable as an Assassin. The crowd was aghast, but none would come forward to help, likely not having the training necessary to be able to assist such a swift fight.

Sila had done well, fighting on her own for hours as she had, but she was clearly tiring.

Well, since Ezio _could_ fight such a swift battle and with the Sword of Altaïr at his side, he pushed through the crowd to help. With so many looking, Ezio didn't dare use his hidden blade. Instead, he pulled out his sword that he'd kept safe and had served him for over two decades, the ancient blade well maintained and as strong as when it had been first struck. Coming in from the side, he cleft a pike in two, throwing one of the soldiers off balance, which allowed Ezio to drive his sword right through him. Without having to fight on two flanks, Sila swiftly used her speed and darted around the second pikeman and stabbed him in the back with her butcher knife.

She looked around, wild-eyed and wielding her knife defensively. Ezio recognized her demeanor all too well. She had been beset when she was supposed to be safe, and had fought past exhaustion. He sheathed his sword and held both hands up, showing them empty. Sila was catching her breath, still looking around, but the franticness was receding to a more controlled scan.

Ezio stayed calm and quiet, keeping his hands up as Sila lowered the knife, tears of exhaustion streaking her face.

"Are you safe, _hanimefendim_?" he asked softly, keeping everything about him non-threatening.

Sila collapsed to her knees, holding her face, but it was a controlled fall, one Ezio recognized for the crowd that would likely presume a woman who had to fight for her life would be hysterical afterward. Ezio stepped forward and knelt by her side.

"There are Templars everywhere, _Usta_ ," Sila said between fake sobs. "It seems I have a bounty on my head! It must be Damat. He's the only one to have seen my face."

"And he must be the vizier on the list Kasim found," Ezio nodded. Sila must have been taking lessons from Meryem as her sobs and crying were so convincing Ezio wanted to reach out and put a hand on her shoulder. But that would not be a good idea in an Islamic city.

"I agree," Ezio said softly. "It is no surprise the Templars are retaliating after everything we've done and sadly you have become an easy target."

"I will _never_ be a target like this again," Sila hissed. Ezio wondered where her normal lack of confidence had gone when faced with the underlying _anger_ in that tone.

"Then we should turn the tables," Ezio said standing. "Flee here and draw them out into the open."

" _Evet, Usta_ ," Sila replied, slowly standing and appearing to hold herself after the carnage not a few feet from them. But they had barely stepped away from the bodies when another pair of Byzantines, this time massive armoglaves came in as reinforcements to the dead pikemen.

From behind the crowds, a commanding arrogant voice could be heard, "Find the _suikastchi,_ and bring that rat to justice!"

"Damat," Ezio and Sila growled at the same time as they got ready for the large armoglaves that had spotted them.

But it seemed Hayri had been swift. An angry, "Byzantium is dead now, so are you!" was shouted as Janissaries pushed through the crowds and immediately engaged the Templars. Sila, once more emulating Meryem's lessons, cowered behind Ezio and tried to cover herself. She took off into the crowds and the crowds were swift to block her from view from the obvious perpetrators. Ezio swiftly blended into the crowds as well and followed Sila.

Damat was already retreating, since it would be obvious from the witnesses that he had ordered the Byzantines into battle. It didn't take long for Sila to slip behind him and stab him with her hidden blade.

Damat growled as he fell. "You _suikastchi_ are a plague on the hope of humanity," he spat, "putting down every edifice of progress we manage to build up." The vizier, pulled at the scarves around his neck. "Given enough time," he gasped, "I could have delivered my people into the arms of the Templars. But no more."

Sila looked down at him, anger and hatred creasing her face to something awful. But she let out a breath and instead simply said softly, "Your edifices are not progress, but prisons. Progress is letting people live their lives and learn, not caging them and dictating them. _Huzur ichinde yatsin_." She closed his eyes and Ezio helped escort her out of the Kapalicharshi back to her den. The members of her den where quick to get her fresh clothes and water to clean herself. They provided much needed quiet after such a busy and perilous morning. Ezio left knowing she was in good hands.

And of course, if Sila's attack wasn't enough to make the week unnecessarily busy, along with Yusuf's work for the novices and journeymen to leave and Ezio preparing for his trip, there was also Obelius.

The very next day, Obelius sent word that there was trouble brewing. Yusuf was still hip deep in his measured and steady outflow of Assassins to escape the city until the search for Tarik's killer started to subside, so Ezio headed across the Halich to see what was the problem.

Obelius met Ezio in a dark alley, his hood up. " _Usta_ , do you remember the printer we sent into hiding?"

"I do," Ezio replied. "And I remember the Templar brute who nearly killed you."

Obelius subconsciously put a hand to his abdomen, long healed now.

"The same brute, Georgios Kostas, doesn't like not being able to find him. He has now set his sights on the printer's father, a local herald who has only spoken truth from the Sublime Porte and never spoken favorably of the Byzantines. He has also been a vocal, if tempered supporter of Selim."

"Which makes him a target regardless," Ezio frowned, shaking his head. "A cruel way to draw the printer out into the open, no? We should warn the father and get rid of this Templar."

Obelius nodded, suddenly looking more adult than teenager. "I'll take us to him."

The sour teenager, looking more like a sour adult, lead them through alleys and cut-throughs, keeping their hoods hidden from view until they came to a podium where a herald was just coming down for a break.

" _Ozur delerim, efendim_ ," Obelius said politely. "Your son has stirred up some trouble. Enough that the men looking for him may come for you now."

The herald blinked, surprised, his sparse beard unable to hide his shock.

"My son? I haven't heard from him in over a month."

"Because we have hid him for his safety," Obelius replied. "He said to give you this."

The herald took the parchment, reading over it, his face becoming more and more befuddled.

"Truly?" he asked. "But he is a humble printer. And I, a simple herald." He reread the note. "I don't believe this. Why would anybody what to hurt us?"

"Words can wound like any blade, _arkadashim_ ," Ezio replied softly.

"Is this because I didn't take the money?"

"We should be moving," Obelius said.

The herald looked to the note, still in shock. "I suppose so..."

They started to head down the street, Obelius intent on taking a different way than the one they'd come as he claimed he felt like he was being watched. The herald explained that when collecting the messages to read out for the day, a herald always had the option of getting extra pay if they spoke with gentleness of Byzantium.

"My grandfather died taking out those Byzantine dogs," the herald spat. "I won't _ever_ support them, extra money or no."

Unfortunately, two streets later, in a dark alley, a stalker came sneaking up behind them. Obelius quickly dispatched him, much to the herald's shock.

"I'll dispose of the body quickly, _Usta_ ," Obelius said, grunting as he lifted the body.

"Be careful."

Ezio and the herald ducked from that alley to another that went behind a building and curved around another. Coming out to the street, they darted across. Ezio's eagle screeched a warning and he turned long enough to see the large brute Kostas running faster than his size indicated and shoved Ezio away before he could even unsheathe his hidden blade.

"Ah!"

Standing swiftly, Ezio glared as Kostas held the herald by the neck, his curved blade already cutting a thin slice that barely drew blood.

"If you draw your weapon, this man dies!" Kostas growled, and the crowds of the street started to scream. "Now bring me the printer! Bring me this man's son!"

Ezio's eagle screeched again, and with his hood to hide his eyes, Ezio glanced up and saw Obelius up on the roofs. Perfect. Ezio kept his stance loose as he slowly started to circle where Kostas was holding the herald.

"What is this man's life worth, _Suikastchi_?"

"More than you can afford," Ezio replied calmly. With Kostas's back to Obelius, the sour young man leapt down to kill him.

The herald gave a high-pitched scream as he fell forward, then scrambled away. Ezio stayed by the herald, trying to calm him down.

"Are you proud of your kill, _Suikastchi_?" Kostas grunted from under Obelius's blade. "Do you expect praise for murdering a better and braver man?"

"No," Obelius replied softly, pulling out his hidden blade, cleaning it, and retracting it.

"You have taken my life," Kostas hissed, "but you cannot erase my legend, my power, my influence. Men _feared_ me, even as they did my bidding... _that_ is the mark of a true leader."

"It is the mark of a bully," Obelius replied. "A bully who can only uses fists to get what he wants. _Barish ichinde bu hayati tek_. Leave this life in peace."

Needless to say, after all that turmoil and excitement, Ezio retreated to Sofia's. He arrived without his armor or weapons, only his hidden blades as he had since they had grown closer, and once inside, he pushed back his hood. Here, away from the hustle and bustle of the city, or the current chaos under the derelict mosque, Ezio allowed himself to truly relax. Sofia smiled upon seeing him, and winked, as she finished with the last of her customers for the day. Evening prayers would be soon so she was preparing to close up shop. He helped her straighten out her books, her customers more or less used to seeing him arrive and help out.

A quiet dinner followed, mostly discussing the books Ezio had been recovering and discussing what the ancient writers could possibly be meaning or what was influencing them. They moved to her fire, both leaning over a printing. Dante's _Comedy_ was a fascinating read and Ezio shared the family story that Dante had entrusted a Codex to Domenico Auditore, Ezio's great-great grandfather. Sofia was quick to point out the similarity to Islamic writer Ibn Arabi, which would have been translated around the time. They discussed the allegories, whether the circles of hell, purgatory, and paradise symbolized a person's journey to believing in God, whether it was a historical allegory, or a moral commentary. There were also the interesting tidbits of astronomy and the circular nature of the world that Corombo only recently confirmed.

Finally, sipping her wine, Sofia laughed. "Enjoying the poem?"

Ezio smiled. "Who are these men he condemned to hell?"

"Political opponents," Sofia shrugged. "Men who wronged him. Alighieri's quill cuts deeply, no?"

" _Si_ ," Ezio replied. "It is a subtle way to seek revenge. It ensures that generations will remember these men as hated."

Sofia gave a rich little chuckle, then pulled the book from his hands and put it on the couch. "I think it's time for something different than hatred."

"Oh?" Ezio asked with a large hungry grin.

"Come and see," she replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rushed. The rest of the fic is rushed, because Ubisoft has this curious habit of jamming memories into the span of a few weeks or so, and then it's a mad dash to finish everything up to set up the finale. The master assassin missions in particular run by very fast, but at least we make up for them with the rest of the chapter.
> 
> Clay. Maybe this was obvious to nobody but us, but as soon as we realized he and Desmond talk between memories to handle the DesmondJourney and LostArchive levels, it became equally obvious that Clay's program would slowly degrade over the course of conversations. He's half-formed, barely visible light in Brotherhood because his program is just initiated, but he overtly states in the beginning of Revelations that he's actively keeping the Animus from deleting Desmond as corrupted data; that has to pay a toll in some way, and since this conversation covers his degradation in sanity, it was only appropriate that it manifested visually as well. It also touches a sore spot or two for Desmond -and we once again praise Nolan North's delivery of the stream of consciousness dialogue of those levels. So much is delivered in the layers he puts into his voice that it practically writes itself.
> 
> Also, Tarik. His voice actor needs to be praised as well, for this exceedingly subtle but readable delivery of his lines. His character - like everyone else with the fallout of a kitchen sink plot - was criminally under utilized, and it's a shame that even we couldn't fit him in more. He was brilliant.
> 
> And then, there's Suleiman. We love him dearly.
> 
> Muslim Lesson: I don't know if this counts as a lesson of just our inner math geeks being happy, but the invention of algebra can be attributed to a series of verses in the Qu'ran where a man named Sura An-Nisa uses algebra (or rather, al-jabr) to handle inheritance. Happy times!
> 
> Next chapter: The misadventures of Ezio and Sofia.


	14. A Little Errand

The following morning, naked and cuddling, Sofia nuzzled his shoulder. "Ezio," she said softly. "I plan to make a trip to Adrianopoli in a few weeks to visit a new printing press there."

Ezio fondled her bosom as he nibbled at her ear. "That should be fun," he said. He had no doubts that she was likely going to see how quickly it could print and if it would be a better way to reprint the lost books they had been finding.

Sofia gave a soft moan, before swatting him. "I'm trying to ask you something, jester."

Ezio moved his mouth down to the corner of her neck and shoulder.

"It is a five or six day ride from here, and I will need an escort..." she trailed off.

"Pardon?" Ezio sat back, hearing her unasked question.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking away. "You are a busy man."

Ezio quickly silenced that slightly hurt tone with a very thorough kiss as he pulled her to him. They pulled away breathless, and Ezio kissed her forehead before looking her directly in the eyes. "Sofia, I would love to accompany you, but I must make a journey myself. I was going to tell you tomorrow, but I must leave next week for a month. Two, at most."

Sofia frowned at all that wasn't said. She arched a brow delicately and simply said, "Oh?"

"The book from Topkapi that you mentioned, it was taken by a man who does not read. I'm going to try and get it back."

"You mean you'll get back what you find from the writing inside the books," she replied.

Ezio couldn't stop the smile. He so loved this intelligent and insightful woman. But he couldn't answer, and she knew that, so he kissed her thoroughly again.

Another two hours later, they were finally getting dressed for the day.

"So what are your plans for today?" he asked.

"A quiet day of study," Sofia replied. "With the printing of these books and the interest they've generated, I've neglected some good books I've been meaning to read. And it's Friday, I won't be getting many customers later today, regardless." She started to brush out her curls and pin them up. "I was hoping that if the weather holds, I'll be able to go to the park east of _Ayasofya_. I enjoy reading in natural light instead of by candle."

Ezio leaned over and brushed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. " _Bene_."

In the back of his mind, he was already making plans.

Ezio had been visiting Sofia for eight months now, and he knew that she loved tulips. Particularly white tulips. The weather had been steadily warming so Ezio spent the day going from flower merchant to flower merchant. Most shook their heads, saying that tulips didn't bloom until April and that it was far too early in the season. Instead they offered earlier blooming flowers like clematis or mash marigolds or freesias or certain irises that were only just starting to bloom. Almost all admitted that it was still far too early to find much variety.

Frowning severely, Ezio instead went to Meryem, whose den was behind the weaving shop she ran.

"Can you make white tulips from fabric?" he asked.

She blinked, caught completely by surprise, before her eyes alighted with the challenge. "We'll need some starch."

He worked with her for the rest of the day, taking undyed fabric and watching her practice folding and using different mixes of starch to keep the shape. She went to her loom several times to adjust tightness of the weave to build in the curves and experimented with different stitches to hold the petals together and not be seen. But by mid-afternoon they had found a method that worked and Meryem made a small bouquet for him.

" _Grazie_."

He headed to the park Sofia had mentioned, glad to note that the sky had cleared enough to see the sun. The air was not what one would call warm, but in the sun it almost was. Wandering the paths and trails, Ezio found Sofia on a blanket basking in the sun, with a picnic spread about her as she read.

"What is this?" Ezio asked.

She looked up with an amused quirk of a smile that he adored, completely unsurprised at his presence. "A gift," she said. "Sit."

Ezio marveled. She had mentioned the park in hopes of him coming to surprise her. A very smart woman indeed. So he sat beside her, almost laying down save being propped up with an elbow, and handed her the white fabric tulips.

Sofia practically beamed. "These are nice, _grazie_ ," she said. She lifted them to her nose, even though they had no scent, and then placed them beside her. "I wanted to thank you for letting me play a small role in your adventure," she said softly.

"A small role is enough for this adventure, believe me," he said. "But once this is done, which it should be after my trip and the last marking you need to decode, the two of us will embark on an adventure of our own."

Her smile was radiant. "Oh?"

"I think we'll start in Venezia," he softly said. "With a wedding."

"Now that _is_ an adventure," Sofia giggled, her eyes dancing. "A very large adventure. Are you sure you're up to one so grand?"

Ezio held her hand that was so close to his. "Yes," Ezio said. "I cannot promise that sharing my life will be easy. Or even fulfilling. But it is something I want to share."

Sofia nodded, then smiled and shook her head. "You are a mystery, Ezio Auditore."

" _Mi dispiace_. I do not mean to be."

Sofia leaned in close, just barely brushing his nose with hers. "It is fine," she said firmly. "In fact, it's attractive."

Ezio chuckled and had to remind himself that in public in an Islamic city, he couldn't just take her into his arms to kiss her.

"So after Venezia," he continued, "I was thinking Roma, so you can see where I work. Then, maybe Firenze, where I grew up. And then... somewhere you'd like to be."

"I hear the fields of Toscana are quite lovely," she smiled.

Ezio gestured to her picnic. "Looks delicious."

"Why thank you."

They spent the rest of the afternoon discussing their future. Ezio still left his life as an Assassin aside, but it was more than clear between them that he would share it all once this adventure was completed.

Back at Sofia's shop, she dug through her papers to hand him one. "The last code, aside from the one you're leaving for. I had solved it this afternoon, before heading to the park."

"I think I'll worry about that tomorrow," Ezio said, leaning in to kiss her.

* * *

The next day Ezio held his fiancée in his arms, thinking about the things he had yet to tell her, the things he had yet to do. She had been particularly vigorous that night; knowing answers were soon to be upon her, security in their relationship settling over her, and simple happiness that she had such a "small part" of his adventure had made her insatiable. If she was like this _now_ , what would she be like when she knew everything? Ezio could admit to himself that he was still concerned about her when she learned he was an _assassin_ ; even her educated guesses about his being some kind of mercenary and her acceptance of the fighters of the city would not – could not – prepare her for the world of shadows he lived in. But her zest for life would spread even to the adventure Ezio lived.

How would she fit into the Order? Would she be a secretary, like Azize? A scholar? Would he burn her finger? That thought made him uncomfortable, he didn't want to put that kind of label on her when there were so many others that better suited her. Could he arrange for her to set up shop in Roma, perhaps, let her live her own niche she had carved out for herself while he worked in his? Perhaps using his contacts for a job at the Vatican, safely sifting through scrolls or having books copied and printed. She might like that.

Ah, but it had to be her decision. Ezio shook his head, smiling at himself for being so presumptuous. They could make all those decisions together later. For now, he had a book to find. He regretfully pulled his fingers from her hair and trailed them down and kissing her thoroughly.

" _Ezio!_ " she moaned into his neck, digging her nails into his side in retaliation.

"It woke you up," Ezio said, smiling unrepentantly at her face, plans for the day slowly disappearing as he looked at her disheveled beauty. Chuckling to himself, he sat up with grace uncommon for his age and admired his fiancée, trailing the soft pads of his fingers over her before standing. "Come, _mia cara_ , let us see if you wouldn't like a slightly larger part of this adventure."

An hour later Ezio lead Sofia up to a mosque minaret – with the permission of the _bilal_ of course – and set her eyes to Kuchuk Ayasofya. Set so high up, Ezio left her up there with a promise that she would see him soon across the way and took to the streets. Reaching Kuchuk Ayasofya he studied the face of the building and waited until noon prayers began. With the loss of major traffic, Ezio began his climb up the face of the building. He quietly hoped Sofia was watching him from her perfect perch, and began perusing the roof. His eagle helped him once again, and he found an inset in one of the massive roof tiles. He needed his hookblade to work it loose, and he slowly moved it aside. The notch was not big enough to fall into like in the mosque's big sister Ayasofya. Ezio shifted his footing so that the distant Sofia could bet a better look and plunged his hand into the hole. As with the others, it was completely dry, and any chance moisture had drainage to leave. Moving his hand about blindly, he was up to his shoulder before he found a notch inside the notch, and his fingertips just barely touched the tome he was looking for. It took some angling and a surprising bit of grunt-work, but he finally worked the book out and sat up, looking over to the minaret and holding it up for his lover to see, proud of the accomplishment before getting up and replacing the tile and sweeping down the side of the building.

Sofia, it seemed, was too excited to wait for him at the minaret and met him halfway up the street.

"It was amazing!" she said, utterly delighted. "To think that all of these books are so cleverly hidden! Whoever hid them knew how to keep them safe and dry, even in a humid city like this, and the cleverness of the locations. Who would think to hide a book on a _roof_? Let me see... Oh! _Aesop's Fables_! It's been translated so many times, to have such an early copy! Did you know that Aesop was a slave? Nobody knows for certain, but his fables were in oral traditions for a long time before someone managed to write them down. And it's in Greek, the original language; oh, imagine having a print of this – will wonders never cease! But you want the additional writing in the first margins, let's go back to my shop and we'll see what they say. I must say, I'm excited to learn where the next location is, I've been giving you almost every famous location in Constantinopoli it seems."

They ate a quick lunch, Sofia pouring over the book and settled into the silence of her work. "The Maiden's Tower!" she said brightly. "Amazing!"

Ezio frowned into his beard, unfamiliar with the location. Before he could ask, however, Sofia had already read his mind. "It's a watchtower," she said quickly, leaning back on her chair, "Well past the Halich and in the Bosphorus Straight, off of Asia Minor. You can see it at night when you take the ferry."

Ezio had seen that watchtower.

"The Greeks and Ottoman's both have legends around that tower. The Greeks thought a priestess of Aphrodite, named Hero, lived in the tower; a boy named Leander lived on the other side of the straight, so of course they fell madly in love like all the classics. Leander very gently wooed Hero, and she lit a lamp for him every night to guide him as he swam across the straight to her. It was a long, passionate summer according to legend," she said with a coy, tempting grin, "but like all tragedies, in winter a storm came and blew out Hero's lamp. Leander lost his way and died, and Hero threw herself from the tower in grief. The Turks believe that an emperor was told by an oracle that his beloved daughter would be killed by a snake on her eighteenth birthday. The emperor had the tower built and raised her there away from any danger; and when she turned eighteen he brought her exotic fruits in celebration of his conquering fate. So, of course, an asp was hidden in the foodstuff and fate had the last laugh." She smiled whimsically. "I like the first one better. At least there was a romantic summer."

Ezio offered a soft, romantic grin. "Would you like to visit such a place?" he asked.

Sofia was of course absolutely atwitter, and Ezio realized that she reminded him of Leonardo in some small ways. She was of course not nearly so disorganized, or prone to leaving things half finished, or even – God forbid – of a similar romantic persuasion, but she had an infinite sense of curiosity and zest for life, passion for adventure. She was more than happy to dash off to catch the first ferry, and Ezio had to talk very quickly to explain that it would not be an adventure that would be kind to her normal finery. Sofia took complete advantage of that, pulling him upstairs and asking his opinion on dress after dress before deviously suggesting she just go naked before dashing her fingers through his hair.

He finally managed to get her settled into one of her cleaning dresses, already stained and simple in design, wrapping a shawl around her against the cold, gathering various supplies about the bookshop and buying a length of rope just in case, and _then_ hitching a ferry. Sofia talked the entire time, speculating out loud what possibly awaited them and ever curious on why Ezio had rope, candles, and other accoutrements necessary for exploring under the tower.

Legends aside, the Maiden's Tower was constructed in 1110 by the Byzantine emperor Alexius Comnenus. Originally wood, it had housed a garrison during the Fall of Konstantiniyye in 1453, and then _sultan_ Mehmet used it as a watchtower. It had been destroyed during the Little Judgment, as had so many other structures in the city; but because of its use in the security of the city it had been one of the first to be rebuilt. Ezio helped Sofia off the ferry and the two looked up the structure. The tower took up over a quarter of the actual building on the tiny island, and Sofia looked at the grandmaster in askance.

"It won't be above ground," he said. "All of these key locations have been below."

"But Ezio," Sofia said, "it's an _island_ , there's no _room_ of something to be below."

"Perhaps," he answered, shrugging his shoulders. The pair walked around the building slowly, eyes downcast. "I hope that there will be a panel with this relief on it," he explained, sketching out the symbol that articulated the Polo's hand. "The tower may have been destroyed, but not completely. There must be some kind of underground cistern – that's where most of the locations on your map have pointed to – that will lead to a separate chamber that houses the key."

"A _cistern_? _Here_?" Sofia was incredulous.

But, indeed, behind the dock and a recessed wall, was the Polo symbol, and Ezio extended his hookblade, a flick of the wrist before it plunged into the relief, unlocked, and retracted in the span of perhaps ten seconds. "Are you a thief?" she asked, reaching out to get a better look at another mystery. "Why do you need keys if you have _that_? That hook thing?"

The fact that Sofia's immediate thought of the hidden blade was that it was a glorified lock pick instead of an instrument of death struck Ezio somewhere between touching and laughably ludicrous. He settled on snorting as a reaction and carefully led her through the recess, down a narrow flight of stairs, and lit a candle. The sound of water filtered through their ears, and Ezio knew he was in the right place. His light pointed him to a proper torch, but it was too wet to light. Pulling out new cloth to rewrap it, he tried again and lifted it high above his head. The cistern was large, considering the size of the island, but not remotely as large as the ones he had been in in the city. Sofia gasped, eyes soaking in everything before they looked up.

"That light," she said, pointing up, "Where is it coming from?"

"Some kind of grating in the tower itself," Ezio replied, "For men stationed here to retrieve the water."

And that was the first in a long line of excited questions, Sofia alternating between discussing the architecture and making observations on allegorical significance to asking questions about structure and construction and invention. She felt she was part of some grand epic, a romance about King Arthur or a descent into Dante's Inferno, or perhaps a paladin of the Third Crusade. Ezio bit his tongue on correcting her on that last part, too busy enjoying her enjoyment as her eyes were alight with literary fantasy come to life. The greying grandmaster, in the interim, asked his eagle for help as they made their way around the cistern. It really _was_ too small for the winding paths he had been on before: under Galata Tower, the Yebertan Cistern, the underground leg of the Lycus River. The very act of _getting_ here had been journey enough, and soon Ezio found the Assassin symbol grooved into the wall.

He held his hand over it, anticipation filling him as he pressed his palm into it, pushing it in and startling Sofia with the sound of ancient gears.

The door did not open all the way, the damage of the earthquake having taken its toll, but it opened enough for Ezio to squeeze through. Sofia curiously stayed back, not entering the room, but even that thought was dim as his eyes took in the statue, the hood, and low arch of the ceiling. A crack skittered across two walls, and a shoulder of the statue was missing, and Ezio beheld the damage with a sad expression. These tombs were not immortal; they, too, would decay and wither away to dust, long forgotten in memory. Would all things vanish that way? He reached out and touched the statue, regretful. "I am sorry I did not come sooner," he said softly, caressing the stone. He took the key, hearing the faint whisper of Altaïr's memory inside it, and pocketed the disc, looking up to the statue once more before turning. He would need to write this down, commit these sacred rooms to memory somewhere, prevent them from being forgotten. The other tombs, too, the ones in Italia that he had looted when he was desperate for money. They deserved at least that much honor for withstanding the test of time, for being there when Ezio needed them, for passing on their secrets as Altaïr's library soon would.

He wondered what memories were held in the disc of Those Who Came Before. What more pain could a man go through in the course of a life? What more suffering would Altaïr be forced to endure?

… What more could Ezio go through...?

Exiting the sacred room, he found Sofia outside, curiously silent, excitement faded from her face and instead something somber settling on her features.

He looked at her in askance.

She pressed her lips together, looking for words, before saying, "These adventures... I realize now they always have an air of solemnity, don't they? There is always an element of tragedy that afflicts them: Leandros died and Hero killed herself; the emperor's daughter still died. The air of sadness, it is not an artist's whimsy, is it?"

"... No." Ezio didn't know what else to say.

Reaching out to touch his arm, she looked at him with such honest concern and love, he felt the weight lighten, slightly. He returned the gesture, and tried to summon a lusty grin. "Perhaps we should reenact the romantic part of the story of Leandros and Hero."

She smiled and took his hand. "Not here," she said. "All this salt water in the air will ruin the mood."

They held hands all the way back to Sofia's shop, and they talked of fables, parables, and romances until late into the night.

* * *

_Why is forgiveness so difficult? Is it a failing of man, some fundamental flaw that prevents so many of us from forgiving those who wronged us, ourselves for the wrongs we have committed? Christians speak of forgiveness often, they have parables of turning the other cheek. Their great prophet managed to forgive those who put him on the cross, and yet Christians themselves do very little to seek forgiveness. Kings and queens hold grudges and make bids for power, nobility crush those underneath them and merchants and beggars wish the world would burn. Jerusalem has traded hands over and over because two faiths that believe in the same god cannot forgive each other the wrongs they have both committed. Hatred begets more hatred, and no one tries to understand one another, and forgiveness is never achieved._

_Perhaps the act of forgiveness itself is meant to be difficult. Perhaps the journey is just as important as the act, the depths a man must travel in order to find the place in himself to accept the wrongs that have been generated, to understand where and why they came, and the resolution he feels after he has forgiven, are meant to be twined together._

_It took me years to forgive Abbas for what he did._

_And to this day, I cannot forgive myself for the part I played in it._

_Many venerate me as wise, many see me as almost holy. Those men I fear the most, because they have not listened to my words, they have not felt the lessons I am trying to teach:_

_I am not wise. I am simply more experienced._

_I can forgive men because I can see beyond them; I see the actions that have lead them to that moment, I understand the feelings that brought them to such a precipice, and know the mindset that drove them over the edge. I know these things because I have lived them myself._

_… Perhaps that is why forgiveness is so hard. Men lack experience._

* * *

Grief was a bitter, unforgiving mistress.

Altaïr had been completely consumed by it, unable to comprehend anything beyond it, for years. It had been Darim who dragged him to Alamut, it had been Darim who had forced him to eat, sleep, break him from that damned Apple of Discord. It had been Darim who had begged and pleaded and argued and _pushed_ that he go beyond his grief, that he take his revenge on Abbas and the Masyaf assassins who had so obviously broken the Creed. Sef's wife and daughters wanted nothing to do with him, held him in contempt for not stopping Sef's death in the first place, and moved to Alexandria where his son had been apprenticed to get away from him. Even Darim, who had fought so valiantly to save his father, had to admit defeat and leave him to his unending sorrow and instead travel west – as full of wanderlust as his mother – and try to warn others about the threat of the Mongols.

Altaïr had not wept. It was not in him. Even with his family dead or abandoned he could not figure out how to articulate the emotions he felt, and in the end, all there was, was the Apple.

Unlike his studies of the artifact as a youth, this was not him concentrating his will on the treasure, but rather letting _it_ concentrate its will on _him_. For a time, in its thrall, he could forget. He lost almost a quarter of his weight to his obsession, locked away and forgotten in his isolation. All the tantalizing glimpses the thing had given him now lay bare, he came to understand it in a way he never did before, and he understood the great trap of the artifact.

The Apple was only useful when it was not being used.

When commanded to do something, it did so, without hesitation or regret or understanding. It was instantaneous gratification of every selfish thought or whim or jealousy given form, and that was the temptation that Al Mualim and others had fallen to. But Altaïr, with no desire, no need, no heart with his family dead at his feet, would simply activate the treasure, and the item's base instructions were carried out. He had been right from the beginning: it had a story to tell, and it could only be told to a mind willing to listen, rather than command.

Revelations befell him: the past, the future, the calculations, the prophet, the need. And slowly, inch by inch, he began to understand the part he had to play, the role he needed to fill. It was not blind preparation for what was to come, but rather careful orchestration for when the time was right. This act that he needed to perform, this deed he had been assigned to do, _this_ was the reason he had been born, and, it was _this_ that could make the death of Malik, Sef, _Maria_ , make the tiniest semblance of sense. The Apple also showed him designs: armor, weaponry, things beyond his imagination but some that his hobby of blacksmithing just barely was able to comprehend. The Apple showed him what was underneath Alamut, urged him that it was important, and he went below to discover curious discs, items that were more than happy to show him how to be used.

The Apple did not show him everything, and that which was shown was shrouded in allegory, metaphor, mystery. He did not understand it, did not _pretend_ to understand it; his humility was complete. He would never be arrogant again. It cost too much.

What made him go back? That he did not know for certain.

But, as he sat at the well, back aching, legs stiff, body tired, he decided that perhaps he needed to see Abbas one last time. There was no more hatred left in him, it had burned out of him years ago. He was eighty-two years old, he did not have enough time left for hatred. He just wanted to talk, to try one last time to get a man who had once been his friend to understand. Perhaps it was foolish. Folly. The Apple did not tell him what to do, it never availed him of the immediate future, and he worried that he was once more walking to his doom, but...

But...

He had to close his grief somehow. He had to move past his losses in some way. And this was the only way to do it.

Maria... would she approve of this?

A man joined him by the well, watering his ass and resting. " _Salam alaykum_ ," he greeted.

" _Salam alaykum,_ " Altaïr replied. "You may have the water, I have just finished."

" _Syukran_ ," the man replied. "Where are you going?"

"Masyaf."

"Ech, take my advice, friend, and go elsewhere," the merchant said. "That place is but a ghost of what it once was."

… The same could be said of Altaïr, and the old man shook his head, rubbing his beard and answering, "Nevertheless, I have business there."

"Then I'm sorry for you."

"Why?" Altaïr asked.

"Because that mountain is a ruin. The whole valley is under the thumb of bandits, led by Fahad and his pig of a son Bayhas. The _assassyun_ do nothing, just sit in their keep watching the world go by when they aren't being bullies themselves. It's a disgrace. I'm old enough to remember when times were good, and I have nothing but contempt for the _Al Mualim_ they have now."

Then it was as Altaïr feared. He sighed, tired even after his rest, and wondered if he could do this, if he had the strength.

" _Strength, Altaïr..._ "

The eagle that had been with him for decades turned his gaze up the road, curling the talons at his feet and fisting his wings. "Trouble is coming," he said softly, taking his pack and looping it over his shoulder. The Apple was at the small of his back, dormant; but no one should hold it. He started to back away, his companion watching him curiously before the sound of horses began to vibrate the ground.

"Speak of the devil," the other man said, yanking at his mule. Altaïr had retreated to an old, withered tree, as ancient as him, and hid in its shadow, silently bidding his companion to escape the encroaching bandits. It was not to be, however, the thieves swept over the hill and quickly circled the other man. Altaïr's eagle immediately picked out the leader, flanked by two others, rusty swords drawn and aggression in every line and gesture. He only had two throwing knives, this would have to be timed very carefully.

"Look, Bayhas, someone has come bearing gifts!" a henchman said.

Said leader laughed, a fake, menacing sound. "If it pleases me, I _might_ let you live."

"You can't!" the victim said, eyes wide, "I have a family to feed!"

"We'll do as we please, _peasant_ ," Bayhas growled. "Kill the ass, we can take the supplies on our own horses."

" _Salam alaykum_ ," Altaïr said slowly, stepping out from behind the tree and walking forward. "It is a pleasant day, is it not?"

The merchant looked at the older man as if he were crazy, but the bandits barely spared him a second glance. Fools. Altaïr moved his hands slowly, imperceptibly, an eagle preparing to strike. The knives were in his hands now, and his eyes had yet to fail him. His arms, however, might be a different story... Still he ambled forward. "I have been walking for several hours," he said in a conversational tone. "These old bones don't work like they used to. Tell me, how far is it to Masyaf?"

The two henchmen turned, full of contempt, and Altaïr flicked his wrists, the knives spinning end over end and finding their marks. Twin throats erupted in matching fountains of blood. Gurgled grunts filled the air as the two men fell, and the horses all startled, terrified of the scent of death. Bayhas turned, confused, and looked down at Altaïr. "What sorcery was _that_?"

"It is not sorcery," Altaïr said, "It is skill. For taking the flesh of the innocent, you must die."

Bayhas finally had control of his horse, and he sneered. "An _assassyun_ ," he said. "You really expect you can just kill two of my men and get away with it?"

"No," Altaïr said simply. "I expect to kill _you_ and get away with it."

"Hah! You're just an old man."

"Age means nothing to the Creed," Altaïr said, meaning every word he spoke, "I have lived by it my entire life, and I will die by it if needs be. You will harm no more innocent."

"That coward Abbas _must_ be desperate if he's throwing degenerates like you out into the field," the bandit said, lifting his sword. "Tell me, how to do you want to die?"

"I wanted to die when I realized my arrogance had cost my best friend his brother and his arm; I wanted to die when I heard my son was murdered; I wanted to die when my best friend was murdered by a man I spared; _I wanted to die with my wife_. You could not give me the death I wanted."

Bayhas charged his horse, and Altaïr spread his feet, hoping. His hidden blade extended, and he slashed – not at the bandit, but at the horse. The animal instinctively jumped aside, avoiding the strike. The bandit wheeled and tried again, but he was not a skilled rider and could not control his animal. A second charge frightened the beast to rearing, and Bayhas fell. Altaïr limped forward, hidden blade at its full length, and thrust, cutting the man down.

"I... I don't believe it," the traveler said, wide-eyed. "You... you just killed three bandits! I don't believe it!"

Altaïr swayed slightly on his feet, the energy necessary for such a brief fight leaving him with nothing left. His companion grabbed him quickly, recognizing his frailty and helping him back to the well, still amazed. Altaïr was out of breath, his heart racing. Twenty years of inaction took their toll, twenty years of _time_ took their toll, he was not what he once was. "What is your name, friend?" he asked quietly, his voice becoming papery.

"Mukhlis, friend, Mukhlis. I still do not believe it!"

"... I, too, remember the days of old, when _assassyun_ held to the Creed," he replied, holding his chest. "Love was very strong in those days, as I recall. Perhaps it is time to return it."

Mukhlis personally escorted Altaïr to Masyaf, entreating him to his home and helping the old man recover not only from his saving him from bandits, but also the weeks of travel from Alamut. Altaïr's reserves were not what they once were, age was taking its inevitable toll on him. He spent his time sitting outside, watching the people go by. Poverty pervaded the valley: clothes that were once modest but well-made were now rags and patches, children begged on corners, goats and sheep were gaunt and poorly fed.

Word of his heroism spread quickly: an old man in a hood daring to think outside himself to help a stranger, and often he was greeted with wholesome nods and kind words. Always he would wave it off, his soft tenor explaining, "Mine is not a heroism to be rewarded. I merely followed the Creed. If you want a true story of heroism, then allow me to tell the tale of a man named Malik A-Sayf."

He told of his long dead family: a son of high dreams dedicated to his family, a brother strong enough to forgive an enemy, a brother who held to the Creed to his very death, a wife who at last found a home, a mother who was valued by everyone around her, a son who learned to find his way, and was off in distant lands helping those in need. The names were all familiar of course: Malik A-Sayf, Maria Thorpe, Darim and Sef ibn La-Ahad. None had heard their tales told quite this way; such names bore the titles of traitor, bad tidings, and dishonor. Word spread even further, and Altaïr gained somewhat impressive audiences. He smiled at them softly, sadly, always ending with, "It would be a shame if their stories were ever forgotten."

When he was strong enough, he ventured deeper into the valley, Mukhlis had long since brought him up to date on the state of Masyaf: the village was heavily taxed, _assassyun_ harvested their women for their pleasure, and even with all that they did not protect them from the bandits. Drunkenness was common even in a village that had such a steady supply of clean water, and rumors of screams echoing off the fortress walls at night pervaded everywhere. With this in mind, Altaïr walked the village with his eagle, his eye darting to just the right people to help; he moderated fights, he carried loads as a laborer, offered suggestions to smithies and gave them small, seemingly insignificant projects, he cleaned a well with herbs and revealed long forgotten fields for animals to graze. Word spread quickly throughout the village and still he made no bid for the keep, did not even speak his name though many had already guessed it. And still he told stories.

He was followed, of course. Abbas was not completely inept, and even the _rumor_ that his hated enemy existed likely drove him to madness. Curiously, however, it was only one boy, barely twenty, who watched with intense eyes from behind corners and up on rooflines. Altaïr found it quaint, being followed, and finally he challenged the youth. He wandered into an old courtyard, long abandoned that once belonged to a lady spice merchant, and sat at a bench, stretching out his legs and resting his ever-weary feet. "You have some skill, child," he said, his eagle making him look up to a roofline. "You are silent in your steps and quick in your agility. You are not always aware of the sun, however. Crowds, I think, would serve you better."

The boy did not appear, but Altaïr at his age would not, either. It was a deep embarrassment to be pointed out by a teacher, and the old eagle let the boy burn through his shame. After he was rested, he got up on aching knees and returned to Mukhlis.

Who, apparently, had bad news.

"That damned coward Abbas," he said, the name a curse on his lips, "He has agreed to let the bandit leader Fahad search the village to find the killer. You'll be dead by the end of the week!"

Altaïr shook his head. "That is unlikely. Or, at least, my death will not be by his hands."

Mukhlis was beside himself. "How can you be so calm about this?" he demanded, incredulous.

"... Because I am old," Altaïr said. "With age comes knowledge, and eventually, wisdom. I am a slower learner than most, that I will grant you, but even I have come to understanding. The bandit Fahad will not kill me. Abbas, might, but not Fahad."

"You say it so casually!"

"Because it is the inevitable," Altaïr said, trying to explain. "I have lived with death my entire life; I have delivered it, received it, and will some day join with it. Death is not something to be feared, but welcomed for the reward it brings."

"... _What_ reward?"

Maria. Sef. Malik. Kadar. But the merchant had not yet gained the wisdom to understand, and Altaïr did not bother, simply sitting outside and watching the people and the young white shadow. As evening lengthened, prayers were finished, and many gathered again for a story, and Altaïr spun a soft tale about a man who fell from grace, arrogant and desperate to be above others to prevent pain, a man who cost his brothers dearly, killed the brother of a dear friend, and was disgraced and humiliated, demoted and determined to earn back his honor. Altaïr explained such a man had to learn the Creed, the Assassin's Creed, slowly, painfully. Such a man eventually came to understand the wisdom of "nothing is true and everything is permitted," and learned how to live it, breathe it, _be_ it. He talked about how the man was forced to take charge of a brotherhood, forced to kill a master he had loved like a father, and his determination to do what was right and just. Altaïr explained in painful detail the mistakes of such a man, careless of the thoughts of others, a reign filled with hidden conflict that he did not see until too late, and he explained how such a man fell from grace a second time. The hush of the crowd was palpable, nobody ever having heard the story of Altaïr ibn La-Ahad with such humility, with grace and pain and understanding. Feelings welled up in the assembled men and women, thinking of their own moments of arrogance, their own desires.

 _Maria_ , he thought, _I hope you ware watching._

That night his shadow broke into his room, face pale in moonlight, and stared at him over his pallet.

"I saw you in the crowd," Altaïr said softly, respectful of his gracious host.

"Did you mean what you said?" he asked. "About the death of Malik A-Sayf?"

Altaïr sat up, his back creaking and slow to do as he bid it. "It is but a story," he said, "A parable for people to interpret what they need out of it. Lessons are born of context, of personal experience, of need and desire. What do _you_ think?"

"..."

The boy left.

Emotional. Headstrong. Just like Darim. Altaïr shook his head and lit a candle. So long as he was up, he would write.

The next morning Altaïr once more walked about the village, helping and sharing stories of old. He tried again to sit in that secluded courtyard, and before he was even settled the boy appeared, moving right up to him and standing over him. Did he like looking down on people? He stared, eyes intense, and Altaïr accepted the gaze, waiting.

At length, nothing.

And then,

"Tell me the life story of Malik A-Sayf."

… Why the curiosity over Malik specifically? But this was the first _assassyun_ Altaïr had met in the village, and so he gave the best rendition he could: Malik's hatred of Altaïr, his eventual show of strength in forgiving the old master, and his work in the Order as Altaïr's second: his instrumental work in retooling the laws, his work in training novices and apprentices, his steadfast work whenever Altaïr was away, his care for the Creed even when things were falling apart around him, and his last moments. Altaïr held nothing back, speaking of his biting wit, the brambles he used for words, his rough exterior. "He was my best friend," Altaïr said, "And he was the greatest of men. Many times I would have been lost without him, and his kindness, not matter how well hidden, was felt by all."

The boy was quiet throughout the tale, not the captive audience of the villagers, but a straight face, pressed into a frown that echoed Malik's own. Now, however, he bent to one knee. " _Al Mualim_ ," he said, " _Syukran_."

Altaïr smiled gently, uncertain where this was coming from, but remained gracious. "You need not thank me, child, I tell these stories for my own reasons. These are the men and women I loved, and I wish for their memories to exist long after their untimely deaths."

"And they shall, _Al Mualim_ ," he said, looking up. "Malik A-Sayf will live through me all the days of my life."

…?

"... What is your name, child?"

"Tazim A-Sayf. Son of Malik."

Everything came crashing to a halt, sound and smell and touch disappeared as Altaïr's eagle honed in on Tazim with pinpoint precision. The slightly hooked nose, the shape of the chin, the complexion of his skin. Green eyes – a gift from the mother – but how... how... _"How_...?"

"My _ummi_ was a garden vision, Barakah, who worked with Malik closely while you were heading off the Mongols. She tried to raise an insurrection for my father and failed, but he gave her one last gift before she was forced to run away."

Oh, _Malik..._ at last you had found someone...

Altaïr moved shakily to his feet, drinking in the very existence of this boy, noting every detail, the uniform – an apprentice – the set of the shoulders, the stance. Was it even possible? But the proof was in front of him, undeniable. The boy – _Tazim_ – was still speaking. " _Ummi_ , she worshiped _Abi_ , her tales were so flowered with her love for him I did not know if it was all true. His name is a curse here, I was often in trouble when I first apprenticed here until I learned to be quiet. After a while... I started to doubt. I thought _Ummi_ was just making up stories, but you... It cannot be a lie, because you do not spare yourself in your stories, you do not spare _Abi_ , and so... _Al Mualim,_ I would be honored to serve you."

Altaïr hugged him, the open display of affection startling the boy, but he held tight regardless and soon the embrace was tentatively returned.

"Tazim, you are proof."

"...? Proof of what?"

"That even happiness can persist in this world." Altaïr cupped the boy's head in his hands, unable to take his eyes off him really, and he smiled. "You must tell me everything."

It was through Tazim that Altaïr learned that the order was not so slovenly as the village could perceive. There were some small numbers across all ages that still maintained the old ways: they drilled, they trained, they practiced; they tried to interpret the Creed as best they could. They saw the Order as sick, lost in its decadence and sought to change it from within. Tazim had come into this circle with thoughts of his father. Many remembered the "good" days, when the Order was strong and the leadership was strong. Few remembered Altaïr's term but some remembered Malik: sour and biting, and they wondered how such a foul man managed to lead the Order so well. Often their small circle was shunned to menial work: tending the libraries or managing the horses, but they held to their duty and hoped to make a difference. But now Tazim felt certain that these punishments were but trials, preparing them for the return of the Mentor, the man who had created the "good" days in the first place. "I can have twenty men at your disposal by the end of the day," he said, voice eager and dark and hopeful all at once.

"Any women?"

"... No, _Al Mualim_ , few are treated as they once were."

Altaïr nodded for the moment, absorbing the information and reflecting. On everything. Was he ready? Could he do this?

" _Strength, Altaïr..._ "

… Yes.

He visited the blacksmiths he had frequented, collecting the pieces he had asked them to make, and spent the night assembling them. The next day Tazim escorted Altaïr to the stables. Mukhlis had his own task: gathering supporters in the valley, one he did gladly with the promise of a change in his life, and his wife volunteered to speak to the women of the village. She had a scar on her wrist, ugly and badly healed, and a fire in her eyes that made the old master assassin wonder. At the stables, some four assassins sat about a fire in the chill dawn, talking amongst themselves. Altaïr waved Tazim back a ways, wanting to assess these men for himself. His eagle identified them as allies but not yet friend, and he wanted as many of the latter as he could muster. If his gambit won, he would need them.

"They say he screams in his sleep, calling out for his father," one of them was saying, derision in his tone.

"Abbas. What a miserable man," said another with a bitter laugh.

"... It is not our place to judge," a third said weakly, not wanting to speak ill.

"It certainly is," the second said. "If our master has gone mad, _I_ would like to know."

The first had noticed Altaïr's approach, waving a hand and hushing the others. "Good morning," he said politely.

The aging master assassin waited a breath, letting all of them get a measure of him, before asking if he could sit. They felt no danger from Altaïr, and one, the first, looked across the way to Tazim, curious if Malik's son knew what was going on. A gourd of water was offered Altaïr, and he took it gratefully. He drank deliberately with his left hand instead of his right, showing his missing finger, and offered his thanks.

"Pity Abbas," he said with his soft tenor, "do not mock him. He has lived as an orphan for most of his life, shamed by his family's legacy. He is of the time of Salah ad-Din and the Third Crusade; raised being told his _abi_ ran away from the Order, and he convinced himself that instead he was on a secret mission. A boy told him the truth once, that his _abi_ had killed himself, and that has forever broken him. He is desperate for power because he is powerless. He cannot escape the shame that he feels and struggles against it even as it conquers him. No one offered to show him the way, and many people are to blame for that."

The third assassin took ire, sitting straight and correcting him. "He is our _Al Mualim_! And unlike Altaïr and the craven before him, he never betrayed us."

But the others were looking at Altaïr with new eyes, and one quickly shushed his companion. "Nonsense," he said, "Altaïr was no traitor." He looked at the old master assassin, gaze intent, willing his words to have meaning. "He was driven out. Unjustly."

The upset assassin scoffed, walking away, muttering about rounds and glaring at Tazim, who was joining the others by the fire.

"Is it... is it you?" the bright one asked, earnest. "I heard rumors, but I did not believe them."

"What is your name, child?"

"Hanif."

"Fadil."

"Aqil."

Altaïr nodded. "I wonder if I might speak with Abbas myself," he said with some whimsy. "It has been a long time."

"Impossible," Fadil said dismissively. "Abbas uses rogue Fedayeen to keep us from the castle. We are considered dishonored for daring to speak against him."

"Fewer than half the fighters here are true _Assassyun_ ," Aqil said. "We who were born and raised here, less than _half_ of the men here. It is shameful. They are cruel to us as well as the valley, they think us beneath them and treat us as novices. They drink even though it goes against the _hadith_ , they beat dissenters and send them here to the stables or the cliffs, strong men are sent on suicide missions to quietly eliminate them. There is little to be found in the keep."

Altaïr fixed all of them with a level look. "Then," he said slowly, somewhat theatrically, "Where do I begin?"

The moment hung in the air, Altaïr waiting for them to realize the truth, but Tazim was already ahead of them. "You begin with us," he said fiercely, standing to his full height. The others quickly followed suit, standing and pulling up their hoods. A ghost of a memory drifted across Altaïr's mind, of the time when he was but an assassin, Masyaf under siege by Templars, and his rashly brilliant plan to inspire the assassins to retake the fortress. History was repeating itself, and Altaïr submitted to it with a respectful nod.

"Go then, summon the others Tazim has told me of, and I will go and see if Abbas will allow an audience with me."

All three bowed their heads, a profound, "As you wish, _Al Mualim_ ," on their lips. Like wisps of smoke they disappeared. Tazim stayed behind, self-appointed bodyguard of the living memory of his father.

"You say these men are cruel," Altaïr said softly, "Has anyone raised his blade against an innocent?"

"Alas, yes, _Al Mualim_. Brutality seems to be the sole joy of these Fedayeen."

A sad sigh. Another nod. "Then they will die, for they have compromised the Order. But those who still live by the Creed _must_ be spared."

"You can trust in us," Tazim said, resolute.

"You _must_ impress this upon the others. I do not wish this to be a bloodletting. A quiet talk with Abbas is all I want; if he grants me leadership of the Order I will accept it, if I can get him to see reason and change his ways, I will accept it, but I will _not_ accept blood of brothers who are just doing their duties, nor the blood of villagers, nor the blood of petty vengeance or rivalries. Do you understand? _Only_ those who broke the Creed."

"You speak wisely, _Al Mualim_ , it will be done, and then I will return."

Altaïr took a deep breath, looking at the path up the mountain. Was it always this steep? He squared his shoulders and began his ascent.

Under the stage of the city, two captains were talking, Altaïr's eagle shrieking at the arrogant set of their shoulders, their lax posture, and their cruel faces. The compass may be emblazoned on their cloaks, but they were not _assassyun_.

"You've heard the stories going around the village?" one of them was saying.

"About Abbas and his nightmares? All know of it."

"No, no. Altaïr."

"The old charlatan? What about him?"

"People say an old _Assassyun_ saved the life of a merchant down in the valley, earlier this week. They say he fought with a hidden blade."

"Ah, rumors. I don't believe it."

"True or not, say nothing to Abbas. He is sick with paranoia."

"When is he _not_?" The pair chuckled at their master's misfortune as Altaïr approached, and they turned to look at him with contempt.

"You make me ill just looking at you," said one.

"Clear out, old man," said the other.

"Do you hold to the Creed?" the aged master assassin asked. "Can you recite the tenets?"

"Who are you to question, codger? Leave before I beat you."

Thin pressed lips under a white beard. "You would harm an innocent man?"

"If you don't get out of my way you sick dog, then yes."

Altaïr extended his hidden blades and killed them, watching as they fell and breathed their last. "Rest in peace," he said, "and learn from your mistakes."

Continuing his climb, he saw more assassins up the mountain, and above them on the roofs he could see Tazim and the others, marshaling their forces. Tazim made many insistent gestures, pressing whatever point he was making, and in that moment he was a copy of his father. Malik... he would be proud of his son no doubt, and Altaïr could almost hear the acerbic voice, grunting "Novice!" at his shoulder and urging him forward, sitting somewhere high and legs twisted about something for balance, the hawk to Altaïr's eagle. He smiled at the thought. No doubt his old friend would find some catastrophic failure in the master assassin's plan even as he praised his son's involvement.

A third captain was higher up the hill, taking the report of the assassin who had left the campfire. "Altaïr is here? In the village? Send word to the castle, quickly! Assassins! To me!" Half a dozen men in white jogged after him, moving further up the hill while others lingered, unable or unwilling to leave their posts. One spied Altaïr as he walked up the mountain, recognized him and moved to intercept.

"Where do you think you are going, old man?" he snarled, aggressive and domineering. The eagle did not see him as an enemy, he was missing the tell-tale set of his shoulders and width of his feet. Altaïr stopped in front of him, gazing at him from under his hood.

"I wish to speak with Abbas," he said simply.

"That will not happen."

"... Will you stop me?" Altaïr asked, stance utterly passive. The assassin took a menacing step forward, but Altaïr moved around him. The assassin blocked his path again and Altaïr stepped around him, refusing to kill this man if it could be avoided. They danced about each other three more times before,

" _Al Mualim_!" A journeyman rushed forward, blade in hand. That broke the passivity, the assassin blocking Altaïr drawing a sword. That would lead to bloodshed, and Altaïr moved quickly, grabbing a wrist and twisting, pulling the blade away and then turning his back on the assassin, facing instead the overeager journeyman. The young man skittered to a halt, face wide with open shock that such an old man was able to do that, and Altaïr sternly gestured to the naked sword. Speechless, the journeyman sheathed it.

Only then did Altaïr offer a soft smile. "Welcome," he said softly.

Tazim fell from above, grabbing the journeyman and dragging him away. "I _said_ we do not want to get him killed! He just saved you from spilling innocent blood, now this time do as I say or I'll kill you myself for not hiding in plain sight!"

Altaïr turned to the aggressive assassin. "That boy is just like his father," he said lightly.

"You... consider me innocent blood?"

"Have you betrayed the Creed?"

"... Only once, to my eternal shame," he replied, grief touching his face.

Altaïr nodded. "Admitting to the sin is the first step," Altaïr said, "Your mistake has cost you, but it has also taught you. Use it, and become a better man."

The assassin gaped at him, the kind words apparently shocking. "You... are unlike Abbas," he said slowly. "I would be interested to see the Order you would lead. May I follow you, _Al Mualim_?"

"As you wish," Altaïr said, nodding his head. "You may join the others."

At the base of the lower watchtower, the third captain from before stood waiting, three patrols of guards flanking him. Altaïr, seemingly alone, locked his gaze on him.

"There!" he shouted, "Kill the traitor!"

And arrow storm followed, shafts of wood erupting from several heads and necks, men Altaïr's eagle saw were enemies. Four were spared, four without the arrogance and cruelty. They fell to their knees, hands up in supplication. Tazim and several others fell in behind Altaïr as the aged master assassin looked down at the four. "Men who know you have judged that you have not broken the Creed. Do you agree with their assessment?"

"I am Fedayeen," one of them said, "I know nothing of your Creed."

"Then you will learn," Altaïr said, "and I earnestly hope that you will find the fulfillment you seek."

"How...?" but Altaïr had moved on, looking past the watchtower and to the road leading up to the keep. "Follow me to the keep," he said to the assembled men, "And spill no blood if you can help it."

"It will be as you say, _Al Mualim_."

Altaïr walked up the path, heart racing from the long walk and the steep climb. He rested by a tree, trying to catch his breath and hoping he had enough strength for this. He did not have it in him for an out-and-out fight, and he did not wish his new brothers to spill that much blood. Age was a terrible foe indeed, and Altaïr knew he would not survive it. Please, let him at least get through the day. He waited until his heart was again under control, and resumed his quest up the mountain. His memory drifted again, remembering a different time he ascended this mountain, the previous time he ascended, with his wife. Maria... oh, _Maria_...

The pain had never left him, even after twenty years, it was just as fresh, just as raw as the day it happened. He could still feel her desperate grip on him, her fearful gaze, and her precious last words. " _Strength... Altaïr..._ " He stopped a moment, reliving the memory, fixing it in his mind. "As you wish, beloved," he whispered. "I will be strong a while longer."

Another captain waited for him at the gate, caped and at the head of an impressive array of brothers. "Altaïr," he said in a grave voice, "two decades have passed since we last saw you within these walls." The old master assassin walked up to him, his eagle telling him everything he needed to know, and when he reached the crest he saw that beyond the assassins were all the people Mukhlis had assembled, and a dozen women dressed as garden visions, scars disfiguring their bodies, the women Malik had spoken of, who had waited until the time was right.

"We could use your wisdom, now more than ever." The captain bowed. All of them, bowed.

Altaïr nodded his head, moved and even more determined.

He entered the gate, and Tazim's collection of twenty swelled to forty with the Captain's men, moving out into an impressive line and standing shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed in an intimidating shield against the men in the keep. The citizens moved out behind Altaïr, silent support. Nobody in the courtyard knew what to make of it, they muttered and pointed, uncertain what to do.

Abbas, of course, had a much different reaction.

"Kill him! Kill him now!" he shouted, his voice withered and decayed. His hair was still dark, but his beard was a stark white, and his eyes were filled with bitter rage and paranoia. Nobody moved, and Altaïr could see many who were not enemies via his eagle, many who were hesitant to compromise the brotherhood, to spill innocent blood. A nod to Tazim showed that the boy understood, uncannily perceptive for his age. "What are you waiting for!" Abbas shouted. "You fools! He has bewitched you!"

" _Al Mualim_ has returned!" Tazim retorted. "No one is bewitched!"

Abbas retreated into the keep, leaving his forces to fend for themselves. Altaïr could only sigh, before raising his voice to the masses. "I would see no blood spilled," he said, "I wish to talk with the master of this place."

Nobody moved.

Altaïr began walking up to the fortress.

"My respect, _Al Mualim,_ " one assassin said, bowing.

Another, however, drew his sword and moved for the kill. Tazim, quick as lightning, intercepted and held the man to the ground, two others moving in to disarm him and tie him up. That gesture of mercy turned the tides, legends of old being summoned in thoughts everywhere, and the gravity of who Altaïr was began to seep into their minds. The eagle watched as men turned from enemy to neutral to tentative ally. Others were quickly restrained, either by Tazim's men or the remnants of Abbas' own forces. He was able to enter the keep.

Abbas was up the stairs, in front of the garden, flanked by two men.

"Tell your men to stand down," Altaïr said, firm, the Order behind him, watching, waiting.

"No!" Abbas spat, his voice cracking with rage. "I am defending Masyaf! Would you not do the same?"

The aged master assassin shook his head. "You corrupted everything we stand for and lost everything we gained. All of it, sacrificed on the altar of your own _spite_. Even if you just reversed my own decisions, even if you only spurned the work Malik and I had done, you _still_ went against the very Creed itself. Your brigands have spilt innocent blood, you compromised the brotherhood with your use of the Fedayeen, you shrank from every battle, every hard decision that came with being in the position of power you so desperately craved. You abuse the people of this mountain and no longer have any honor left. Is that why you have nightmares? Is that why-"

"And _you_ ," Abbas shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. "You have wasted your life staring into that Apple, dreaming of your own glory!"

"That is true, Abbas," Altaïr readily admitted. "I _have_ studied the Apple. But not for my own glory. _Never_ for my own glory, but to better prepare the Order for the future. I learned many things from the Apple. Of life and death, of the past and the future." He took a deep breath, saddened, and lifted his arm. The metal was heavy on his wrist. "Let me show you."

He took aim.

He fired.

And Abbas fell.

The world slowed by a factor of four, Tazim and the other brothers gasping and covering their ears, unable to understand what was happening. Abbas rolled down the stairs, blood spurting from his chest and stopping at Altaïr's feet. The bitter old lion looked up, seeing the old eagle's face and grimaced. "I can _never_ forgive you Altaïr," he grunted. "The lies you told about my family... my _abi_... The humiliation I suffered."

The pity he had counseled the other assassins swelled in Altaïr, and he knelt down, reaching over and cradling the dying man's head. "They were not lies, Abbas," he said softly. "I was ten years old when your father came to see me. He was in tears, begging to be forgiven for betraying my family. He was the reason my father was killed by the Saracens; he had been tortured by them. He confessed all of this to me, begging forgiveness. Then he cut his own throat. I watched his life ebb away at my feet. I will never forget that image."

"... No," Abbas moan, turning from Altaïr's touch.

"But he was not a _coward_ , Abbas," Altaïr pressed, he needed to say this before it was too late. "He reclaimed his honor with that act, his act of killing himself was his way of repentance for something that I cannot even fault him for. His last moments were his best."

Strength waning, Abbas tried to roll out of Altaïr's gentle grip. "I hope there is another life after this one," he muttered, "Then I will see him, and know the truth of his final days... And when it is your time, we will find you, and then there will be no doubts."

Abbas died.

Altaïr sighed, reaching up to close his eyes. "You were bitter until the end," he said softly, "I hope it does not follow you to that life you wish to see. Know that I do not hate you, and have never hated you. I only regret that I could not help you more."

He looked up, surrounded by the Order, and they watched his sorrow.

Two days later, the bandit master Fahad rode into Masyaf to take revenge for his son. Altaïr met him, flanked by Tazim and Mukhlis. He was dressed in white for the first time in years, hood bright in the sun. Fahad looked down at him, frowning.

"You are not Abbas."

"Abbas has left us," Altaïr replied.

"I demand the life of the one responsible for the death of my son."

Altaïr nodded, his eagle giving him a stream of information, and once he understood this man, he replied. "If that is truly what you desire, then I will turn myself over. But is it truly your desire?"

Fahad snorted. "What do you mean by such an impertinent question?"

"I mean, how well do you know your son? Were you aware of his last moments bullying a humble merchant? Did you know he moved to kill an old man? Do you truly love a disgrace of a man so passionately you would risk war between two peoples simply to avenge him? Are you truly so self-destructive?"

The bandit leader frowned, tilting his head. "You would war with _me_?"

"No, I would sacrifice my life for peace between us, but this is the brotherhood of _assassyun_ , they kill men who are so corrupt. The resulting death is utterly unnecessary. I wish to avoid it. Neither of our people are strong enough to withstand such a war."

Silence followed. Tazim was twitching behind him, nervous; and Mukhlis was pale and shaking. Fahad studied them, eyes casting up and seeing the archers that Altaïr had reinstalled, the patrols moving about the village, the sense of rebuilding that was just beginning to bud. And, at last, Fahad nodded. "There is wisdom in your words," he said slowly.

Altaïr nodded. "Perhaps, if you were willing to abandon banditry, you would join us."

Fahad laughed. "You have wisdom, but not intelligence, _assassyun_. Such is the way of your kind. No doubt we will meet again."

"No," Altaïr said. "We won't."

Word spread of Altaïr's olive branch, and soon half of Fahad's forces joined the brotherhood for little more than the promise of food and water.

* * *

… _Forgiveness is the most difficult of paths to walk, but, in the end, I think it is the most rewarding._

* * *

" _Usta_?"

Ezio looked up. An apprentice was at his shoulder, waiting to be acknowledged. The young girl flushed, seeing the grandmaster's tears, and bowed her head. "Forgive me," she said hurriedly. "I did not mean to interrupt. _Usta_ Yusuf said he is ready, and..."

" _Si,_ " Ezio said, wiping his eyes, putting the key down. "I will be there shortly."

" _Evet, Usta_." She all but ran away.

Ezio leaned back, closing his eyes briefly, allowing himself to finish sorting through his feelings, finish reflecting on this most recent and most important lesson from Altaïr's memories. Forgiveness... Could he forgive Borgia? Cesare? The Pazzi? In his youth, no, but now... older, more experienced, debatably wiser, he wondered if he could take that long view, to see what had brought such men to the decisions they had made, and to the cost those decisions had on his life. Ezio was not the philosopher that Altaïr was, but... Yes, he could forgive those men. Not now, not yet, but in time. He resolved to try and reach for it, to try and reflect and meditate on the concept until he was ready. Perhaps he, too, could find something when that happened. Was that the lesson the great grandmaster of old was trying to teach? To outline the litany of sins this man Abbas had done, to show how hard it was to forgive, to show the difference between forgiveness and consequence? It was profound, if it was, and Ezio wondered at what could _possibly_ be locked away in the other disc.

Rubbing his grey beard, he stood and locked the keys away, exiting the library and the hideout and moving above ground. At the docks of the Halich he cast his eyes out at the collection of ships, wondering what the affable mentor of the Turkish assassins had in mind for his latest scheme. The man had been barely visible for the last week, trying to take care of his flock, what could he possibly have arranged for Ezio?

" _Usta_ da Firenze!" Ezio looked up to see Yusuf on a second story boardwalk, leaping over the edge and landing lightly on the ground. A broad smile was on his face as always, and he approached with a wide expanse of his hands. "Word around the city is you're leaving us."

The man was as subtle as a brick to the face, but his blatant sarcasm made Ezio smile regardless, and he offered an equally coy response: "Is nothing I do a secret?"

"Not to worry, brother," Yusuf said brightly. "The captain of your ship is a friend. _Shehzade_ Suleiman made a good choice in that regard. But neither of you are going anywhere just yet. The Janissaries have raised the chain across the mouth of the Halich and ordered a full blockade until you are caught. Impressive, no?"

That was all Ezio needed. "They raised the chain for me?" he asked with Florentine irony.

Yusuf laughed. "We will celebrate later. I already have a means of getting you out, and we are ready to begin the operation. Piri _Reis_ was experimenting again, he managed to create a bomb with a much bigger kick than normal; as we speak, Dogan and Sila are on the other side of the channel, setting it up. When it goes off, the entire dock will fall to panic, and we can get you out onto the Bosphorus Straight and off to the Black Sea in no time. Brilliant, isn't it?"

" _Sì,_ if it works," Ezio said.

" 'If'? You wound me, of course it will work! A little domestic terrorism in a city infected with Templars is good for the soul; it will put even more focus on the Byzantines if we play our cards right."

" _Bene_ ," Ezio said, trusting the Turkish mentor. That meant he was set to leave. Then there was just one thing left to do. "Yusuf, a favor."

" _Evet_?"

"The woman running the bookshop at the old Polo trading post, Sofia. Look out for her. She is a remarkable lady."

Yusuf smiled, clearly expecting the request. "You honor me with your trust, _Usta_. I'll guard her with my life. I'm keeping most of the den leaders in the city; they're the most capable if things go wrong. She'll be guarded by the very best."

" _Grazie. Grazie mille_."

" _Usta da Firenze..._ you know I don't speak Italian..."

The pair chuckled together, warm and brotherly.

"Alright, let's see if we can't get you past that chain."

Ezio frowned as he realized something, casting his eyes out to the ships, seeing many Ottoman guards exploring them and checking cargo. Wait... "You said they were on the other side of the dock," he said, turning to Yusuf. "Won't the panic be more distracting there? Wouldn't it be easier for us to be _there_?"

Yusuf looked at him blankly, and then cursed. "Come on, we have some time, I'll get you to a ferry."

Except an enormous banging sound filled the air, a rush of air sweeping past them and all eyes snapped to the south side of the channel to see a tower collapsing. Smoke filled the air, and everyone on their side of the channel watched as the thick column of smoke drifted up. _Merda. MERDA_. Ezio turned to Yusuf. "Where is the ship Suleiman arranged? Will the captain be scared off?"

"Hah! I doubt it," Yusuf said, grinning in spite of the serious situation. "See there, it's trying to take off along with all the other ships to keep from going up in flames. It's a race: we need to get there before he leaves the Halich and before the Janissaries stop all the ships."

 _Merda_. He was too _old_ for this. Taking a deep breath, Ezio looked to the ships on this side of the channel and spotted a military ship. Military meant armament, and armament meant possibly more distraction for the Ottomans. God forgive him for what he was about to do... Ezio took off at a flat run, Yusuf struggling to catch up and follow what Ezio was doing. "Ezio, what are you _doing_? Those ships are armed, they're waiting to stop your boat!" But Ezio was focused now, adrenaline starting to pump through his aging body and filling it with the energy necessary to do what was needed. He leapt up to the deck, startling everyone and shoving two overboard before beelining to the cannon-like device his eagle had spotted, dashing towards it as his eyes took in all the details and figured out roughly how to use it.

"Greek fire? I _like_ the way you think! I'll keep the Janissaries off your back."

And Yusuf gave a great yip of delight as he dove into battle, protecting Ezio's back as the aging eagle of Florence began pumping the gears of the machine, fire erupting from the barrel of the cannon and sailing over in an oily line. _Merda_ , the destruction was magnificent. A half dozen ships around him immediately caught fire, terrifying everyone on the docks and sending them running home – guards included. Yusuf fended off those that were of a tougher metal, cracking jokes all along the way and having the time of his life. Between the crashing tower and the sudden burst of fire on the channel, the ships were all desperate to leave port. The Ottoman ships couldn't figure out where to fire, some still on the south side while others tried to sail north and stop the other half of the destruction. Nobody could make a firm decision, and the havoc the twin attacks called had devastating consequences.

"Oh, this will be _fun_!" Yusuf said brightly, "The Byzantines are going to _hate_ this when we start planting evidence."

Somebody finally decided to fire, and cannons erupted on both sides of the channel, omnidirectional for fear of missing whatever the next attack might be. One accidental shot crippled the Greek fire cannon, but Ezio didn't care, his work was done. Half the bay was on fire, and the concern about men dying on their ships were firmly stomped down as Ezio backed up and leapt from the bow of the ship to a pylon that had yet to burn. Yusuf cheered his friend's escape. "I'll see you on the other side, _Usta_ da Firenze!"

Ezio leapt from pylon to pylon, running across the rails of a sinking ship and burning his lungs into a black mess with all the smoke he was inhaling. His eyes burned almost to the point of blindness, but his eagle helped him through the thick mass of fire and smoke. He thought he heard screaming, but he dared not commit that to thought; he tried to convince himself that the harbor was effectively empty, all the ships were empty, all the screams were just Ottoman guards, not innocent men, not workers with families, not seamen with livelihoods, just ghosts like the long string that followed him through life. Yusuf's idea was nice enough, but he wondered if the Turk understood the unintended consequences of his work; would this put focus on the Byzantines as he hoped, or would it further galvanize the Janissaries against the assassins? Ezio tried to close the circle of thought. This was all for his pilgrimage for his quest of answers – he was supposed to receive clarity, and the Templars had interminably delayed him. He tried to convince himself that this was payback, but all he could think of was Tarik Barleti, another "unintended consequence" of this quarrel. So much death...

Grunting, he ran along the bow of a ship, over the thick pole that extended from it, and leapt. He landed hard on his feet, tucking into a roll and coming up with too much momentum, tumbling to his knees before he could stop. He hated getting old.

He looked up and recognized the striped sails of the ship Yusuf had pointed out. He breathed a shallow sigh of relief through the smoke before coughing. Now, who was the captain?

"Yours is not a subtle approach," came a hoarse voice behind him. Ezio turned around with some surprise. _Piri_ had been the captain Suleiman had picked? No wonder Yusuf was so confident...!

And, beyond Piri, behind his ship, the entire Halich was aflame.

Ezio sighed, shaking his head, and looking down at his hands. There was so much blood on them for this day...

" _Mi dispiace... Requiescat in pace... Mi dispiace..._ "

He went below decks and tried to remember what this was all for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I read this fic in one last pass before putting a chapter up, the more I realize Revelations is less of a novelization and more of a giant wish fulfillment. We aren't really novelizing this game so much as using it as a vehicle to articulate points that are important to us as people. Sofia, the less-than-blank slate has become a marvelous example of us showing what we feel a proper relationship should look like. Several times now we've taken the trope of the strong man hiding his life from his lover and made Ezio realize that he has absolutely no right to hide so much of himself and expect a healthy relationship. With this chapter he officially declares that he will tell her everything with the end of his pilgrimage and, if she's willing, marry her to prove his commitment. I can't tell you how often we talked about how important this was. Like, really, it was one of the mainstays of conversations about this fic, mixed heavily with Sofia's lack of character and the role of women in video games in general. It's Sofia who has complete control of this relationship rather than Ezio; she's been the one chasing him, she's the one who initiated the physical part of the relationship, and it will be her decision to marry him. Even his ruminations on how she will fit into his life he realizes are pointless, because in a healthy relationship the couple make those decisions TOGETHER.
> 
> And we haven't even gotten into the fiasco of a finale the game has.
> 
> And if that wasn't enough, there's Altair. Where his last memory was - we're told - a tear jerker because of all the tragedy going on around him; we hope that this chapter is similarly a tear jerker because of all of the HOPE going on around him. Even after twenty years of exile - thirty years away from his home - the Order is not completely broken. There is the reward of the garden visions - another wish fulfillment on our part - there is the reward of Mukhlis and the villagers, and there is the reward of Tazim. It is our opinion that he (and by extension Malik) were criminally under utilized in the game because of the kitchen sink plot. He isn't even mentioned by name, and while Mr. Bowden introduced him adequately, the presentation of what would be for Altair such an important moment was lacking. Much like Claudia's rape-for-plot scene in Brotherhood, the two of us looked at that scene and said, "This will be different."
> 
> And now we have this. We love Altair. Dearly. And now that he has gone through his character arc a second time, he has achieved even higher levels of awesome. He is the sage that many conjure in their minds, the Merlin or Yoda or sensei that is so common in narrative fiction. And, coolest of all, we were able to watch how he became that way. Thank you, Ubisoft, for creating such a character and allowing fanfiction writers such as ourselves to play with him. As always, we strive to do it justice.
> 
> Muslim Lesson: Er, it really shouldn't have taken this long, but there are five pillars of Islam. The first is the Shahada, the declaration of faith. Like the First Commandment in Judaism and Christianity, it's a recitation of there being only one god, Allah: There is no god but Allah and Muhammad (peace be upon him) is the messenger of God.
> 
> The second pillar is the Salat: praying five times a day: Dawn (Fahr), Noon (Dzhur), Afternoon (Asr), Evening (Maghrib), and Night (Isha) where they recite different rakaats, verses of prayer.
> 
> The third pillar is zakat, charity. Where Catholicism pays a tithe every week at mass to pay for the upkeep of the church, Muslims are expected to perform charity. For the wealthy, this might be monetary donation, for the impoverished it might be smiling or clearing a road of debris as mentioned earlier. It is obligatory for everyone with money. It's kinda like tax. But money goes to feeding the poor rather than the government. Those who don't qualify to pay zakat / are 'fakirs' (needy) so they are the ones getting the money.
> 
> The fourth pillar is sawm, fasting. The most well known version of fasting is of course Ramadhan, an entire month dedicated to it and is as big as Christmas. Beyond the ritual fasting, however, there is also fasting for repentance.
> 
> And, of course, the fifth pillar of Islam is the hajj, journeying to Mecca during the holy month Dhu al-Hijjah. It is obligatory of every able-bodied Muslim.
> 
> Next chapter: are sure to go well. Really.


	15. Death of a Palaiologi

Looking up to the sky, Desmond realized just how blocked off it was by the large pillars of Those Who Came Before. The island he was on was almost completely bereft of those large blocks of... something. The ones that had floated in the horizon were now uniformed, and the sky was slowly being blocked off.

"Looks like your partitions are coming along well."

" _Jesus Christ!_ " Desmond startled, whirled around to see Clay. "Don't sc-"

"I had a much harder time hacking the Animus," Clay growled, looking up to the sky his face twisted in anger. "A _year_. A _fucking_ year. You know what paliperidone is?"

"No, I-"

"Anti-psychotics. _Fucking_ anti-psychotics. Don't even get me started on the side effec-c-c-cts-" Clay glitched and reappeared further away, appearing to talk on a phone that wasn't there. "How are you doing, Dad? Hanging in there? I know it's hard with Mom gone." He nodded, as if listening to something. "That's tough," he said softly. "I sent a check, it should arrive today or tomorrow."

But Clay glitched back to where he was, staring up at the partitioning sky. "One whole year and I _finally_ found what they were looking for. You, Desmond. You. An ancestral tree that fits with mine, you have the key to the Pieces of Eden. Their scientists were running tests. One little silver ball within a satellite and angled toward Earth... well, their utopia was in their grasp. _Finally_ we could leave."

… We? Desmond nodded. He had planned to escape with Lucy. Clay would have as well.

Glitching again, Clay was writing on the ground, and unlike Desmond, who couldn't manipulate the fakeness of the island, Clay who was far more in synch with the code (and insanity) wrote "Oxfb, vky Lv dOzdbv ehklgg Brx." Desmond recognized the code, an alphabetic shift of three. It was one of many he'd learned in his childhood. "Lucy," it read, "she Is aLways behind You."

Desmond grimaced, remembering the feel of Lucy's blood on his hand. And all that had lead up to that moment.

Clay glitched again, back to staring at the sky. His mouth didn't move, but an audio clip played like the memory of a conversation, clear, but echoing within one's own mind.

" _Lucy_ ," Vidic was all oil and charm. " _This is where your background comes into play. If our experiments with Desmond in the Animus aren't going well, if he's resisting and not advancing quick enough like I suspect he will, you, my dear, will remove him from Abstergo. Take him somewhere he will feel comfortable divulging his secrets. Your Assassins should do the trick. Since we know Desmond has some computer skill, rusty and ancient as it is, we will allow him to read our emails. Therefore we will ensure that secret communications between you and the Assassins go through unimpeded. Once you are imbedded, I will come to pick up the Animus tapes._ "

Desmond wanted to gag.

" _Make sure you look very upset. You need to be convincing. Young men like to save a pretty woman, don't they? It's not like men appreciate a woman as a person, they just dive in to solve a problem when a woman just wants support. Play on that idiocy. Given how isolated Desmond has been, any chance to connect will be a solid one and the damsel in distress creates the perfect power fantasy._ "

"No!" Desmond shouted. "Lucy _wasn't_ a damsel in distress, you _bastard_! She's – _was_ – a human being! With hopes and dreams and worries and concerns. She wasn't perfect, but she was-"

" _Desmond will lead you to the Apple and then you will bring it right to us. We're counting on you, Lucy. You have served the Templar Order well, and we_ never _forget loyalty._ "

"You _bastards_ ," Desmond growled.

" _Oh, yes,_ " Vidic's voice continued to drip slime. " _Once inside their hideout, perhaps you might ask the Assassins why they left you all alone for_ so _many years._ "

"Lucy!" Clay shouted, stumbling back. "Trapped. I'm trapped! I have to get out of here!"

Clay turned to run, but barely got a few paces before the sound clip from Juno replayed. " _Your eyes are now open. Help Desmond Miles._ "

"I will." But Clay was glitched to be listening on a non-existent phone again. " _Hi, Clay. It's your dad. Pick up the phone. I know we haven't talked in a long time... I'm fixing the back porch, it's hotter than hell out here, and I could use a hand. Call me. Let me know you're okay._ "

" _They must_ all _suffer as_ we _have suffered._ " Juno's voice echoed overhead.

Clay glitched again to writing on the sand, his previous message gone. "53686520 6F75606120 6861 766520 6C656420 442061 77617920 66 726F6D20 746865 207061 7468."

Desmond frowned, remembering the hexidecimal from computers, and taking the arduous task of translating it without pencil and paper. "She would have led D away from the path."

Right. More reference on how Desmond was screwed by trusting Lucy. He refused to regret knowing her. No matter how much was a lie, she had genuine feelings, regrets, and meant no ill will to him personally. Of that, Desmond was certain. She couldn't stay an Assassin, she joined the Templars, but Lucy never wanted to do harm to anyone she knew. Her joking around with him in the tunnels under Monteriggioni, what she had shared. That was above and beyond "making him comfortable".

But Desmond still hurt, knowing her betrayal. He had known... since he'd stabbed her. Since... He had known. And he... couldn't say the same about himself. He didn't want to kill Lucy, it was easy to blame the strange thrall that Juno had cast over all of them, but in the end, in that last moment... Desmond had killed her willingly. He had seen ahead and behind, he had seen consequences and opportunities. Lucy would have fought to protect them. Claiming they had useful information, after she had betrayed them. She would have done her best to make sure the three of them were treated well. But she couldn't prevent the inevitable. She couldn't play both sides of caring forever. And one day, she'd be taking a day off, a much-needed vacation, and the three of them would be dead. Lucy would grieve. She would doubt. She would question. She would try to go back to the Assassins, but wouldn't be accepted. Or she would simply wither away in grief, before becoming the cold Templar Vidic was.

Killing her then, was perhaps the kindest thing Desmond could do.

But no matter how he hated the decision, Desmond wasn't a coward, like Abbas. He didn't run from the decision, as he had his past. Desmond wasn't a brute, like Cesare. He kept the death swift and painless. Desmond wasn't an egotist, like Lee. He didn't relish his superiority by the cost of a life.

Instead, Desmond quietly mourned and regretted.

"She wrote me a letter, you know."

"Nice to see you sane again," Desmond muttered.

"Said your father was using us. That we aren't people to him." Clay kept looking up to the sky.

"My father," Desmond sat down and looked out to the water, rather than the partitioned sky, "he's not an easy man to respect or care for. He's a pain in the ass, more than anything else."

"She deleted the security records. Lucy did." Clay sat down as well, then fell back to look up at the sky. "She protected me, in her own way. Made sure Vidic never discovered how much I was doing. But she kept me prisoner."

"I remember the start of my jailtime," Desmond replied quietly, looking away. After nine years away, his old bitterness was back. He had been tired again. He hadn't wanted to admit that moving forward, going beyond New York, might mean taking a step back. But the shine of the city had faded. The freedom he'd worked for felt hollow without connections, without old friends, without family. He had no longer been a brash teenager anxious to see the world. He had become world-weary, and looking for familiarity.

And that... that was when Abstergo came for him. "They had been looking for me. I couldn't believe it. I stiffened when I heard my name. Hindsight I shouldn't have reacted." But to hear someone who _knew_ who he was, Desmond had still thought like a naïve kid. He'd thought that meant an Assassin had found him. He had never dreamt it was a Templar instead. "I spent half my life trying to forget everything my parents taught me, everything I thought was a lie. And suddenly, I wanted it all back. All that training, all that time."

He had recognized someone spiked his drink in an instant. He still didn't know how they had spiked it, but he didn't pay attention back then, tired as he was. But he _did_ fight back. The drink was designed to make him slowly pass out, like he was drunk, something he _never_ was when on shift and his coworkers would know that. Sharing a drink, with a customer, Desmond always watered his down. He couldn't stand being drunk and not being in control of his actions. So he fought back. He carefully gave the empty glass to a new waitress, something bartenders didn't do, then whirled and attacked. He would get away. He would _hide_ , he would _not_ be taken! He remembered his lessons, he could do this! Run, get back to the Farm. _Something_.

But the jackass had muscled friends. And Desmond could run well, but he hadn't fought in years. He couldn't take them down to get outside to freedom and safety. And a fist the size of a Christmas ham finished what his drink would have taken an hour to do.

And then he was jailed at Abstergo.

_You have information we need, Mister Miles._

_Information? I'm a_ bartender _for Christ's sake! What do you need to know, how to mix a martini? Maybe a cosmo?_

 _We know who you are, Mr. Miles. We know_ what _you are._

_I don't know what you're talking about._

_Don't play coy with me, there isn't time. You're an_ Assassin. _And whether you realize it or not, you have what my employers want, locked away in that head of yours._ Desmond sighed. "Bastards." He glanced up to his partitioned sky. "In a few short months, my life changed forever. My easy, carefree days are behind me. But I don't want them back. Not now."

Clay nodded beside him, and they had a moment of comfortable silence. Desmond looked back down and rubbed his face. He was tired. Did this count as sleep or wake cycle, being in the Animus? How long had he been running like this? God he was tired. So Desmond lay back, closed his eyes, and attempted to sleep. It's not like he felt the ground or anything, so he should be able to right?

Some time later, Desmond was still resting. He couldn't go to sleep, the lack of input from his body made his mind too uncomfortable to just let go, but he was feeling more rested. Clay had disappeared, but that was no surprise. How much he had glitched was worrying. Desmond wondered if Clay was slowly getting deleted as the Animus hunted him down like a virus, but Desmond _really_ didn't want to think about that.

" _You know something, don't you?_ " Shaun asked overhead. " _You know what's out there._ " He sounded almost accusatory.

" _I have a hunch, yes,_ " Desmond's father replied. Evasive, but no surprise there. Desmond remembered that tone all too well.

" _Come on, Bill_ ," Shaun wheedled. " _You never do anything halfway._ " God was that the truth. " _What do you think we'll find?_ "

" _If we're lucky, another prize,_ " his father replied, still vague. " _If we're very lucky... something that'll end this miserable war._ "

Desmond wondered when his father had gotten so tired.

" _You're talking over my head, mate_ ," Shaun replied, sighing. " _You never could answer a direct question clearly. You'll make a fine politician some day._ "

" _Listen Shaun_ ," his father replied with just the barest touch of annoyance. " _I have no idea what we're going to find. But I_ do _know that whatever it is, the Templars_ can't _have it._ "

Desmond sighed, glancing up to the partitioned sky. That was the type of thinking that had made him leave. That had left Lucy alone without support for years, and that had sent Clay to his insanity. For once, just _once_ , couldn't his father have a little compassion for the little people who carried out his grand design? Ezio worked for a larger picture, but he cared for and mentored all Assassins he trained and grieved their losses. Altaïr _saw_ and then _lived_ towards a larger picture, but he still took the time to raise his sons with love and care. If it was such a difficult life, how could two Assassins, centuries past, manage to do it?

That would certainly be something to ask his father if he ever got out of here.

Hands grabbed him by his hoodie and dragged him up and suddenly Desmond was slammed against the last of the massive blocks of Those Who Came Before that made the gateway to Ezio's memories.

"Clay? What the hell?"

"How? _How_? How do you break the loop?"

"What are you-"

"Tell me how to break the damn loop! Tell me!"

But in a flash, Clay glitched again, and was simply off to the side, while Desmond struggled to orient himself after so brief a violent flash.

Clay watched him for a moment, his face concerned.

"You okay there?"

Desmond glared. "You lucid again?"

"Sorry, what?"

"... Right. I'm fine."

Standing straighter, Desmond leaned back. He should probably be heading back to Ezio soon. He was feeling more rested, and less drained. He turned, glancing to the soft blue glow.

"Do you regret anything, Desmond?"

He turned, "Like what?"

"Running away," Clay said, like talking to a small child, with anger slowly building. "Leaving your parents behind. Finding a shit job, and pretending to be productive." Clay walked forward, only just stopping before getting within Desmond's personal space. "What's it like spending your whole life avoiding hard decisions?" he asked with a cruel sneer.

Desmond stepped back, scowling. "Come on."

"Sure," Clay continued, grabbing Desmond's arm, "you're an Assassin, but it wasn't your choice."

"Do you have a point?" he replied sourly.

"I want to know," Clay said slowly again, "if you regret anything."

"... Sure," Desmond replied, glancing away. Regrets he had. He had far too many of them. "I wish I'd been more patient with my parents. I wish I'd listened." Desmond sighed again, his shoulders sinking. "I wish I'd stayed, continued my training. I wish that..." he trailed off, looking down to the ground. "And Lucy," he said softly. "Maybe things could have been different if I'd-" But the Apple was all too clear on the could haves and maybes. "I'm not sure." Desmond looked up to the partitioned sky again. "All I know is that I don't agree with what my father said."

"Oh?"

"He said once, that 'we are nothing'. I get what he meant now. That nothing is true. But he's wrong. We _are_ something," Desmond turned, intent and solid. "We matter. What we do matters. And because of that, we can't simply be 'nothing'. We can't hold life at a distance so that we won't feel grief later on when loved ones die. We can't become so focused on stopping Templars that we forget we're human. We can't stop looking for peaceful methods and avoid killing when possible. We work in the dark to serve the light. _Laa shay'a waqui'n moutlaq bale kouloun moukine_. _Nulla è reale. Tutto è lecito_. I am an Assassin. I _am_ an Assassin, and what I do _matters._ "

Clay smiled, sadly, relief crossing his face. "Thank you," he said, with all sincerity.

"For what?"

"For making sense." And he disappeared in a burst of light.

Desmond _really_ didn't want to think about what it said about him that he made sense to a crazy program.

" _DNA and memory scanned. Memory Sequence archived. Warning. Recursive idle state instability. Stack overflow immanent. Quarantining construct Clay Kaczmarek_."

Shit. Desmond turned and got back to work.

* * *

_Claudia,_

_I have left Constantinopoli and set sail for the interior of Anatolia, to a region called Cappadocia where Manuel is training his soldiers. If I am lucky, I will not be alone, for there may be Ottoman spies in the area waiting to strike._ _But as ever, I only put stock in myself, and hold the memory of dear Sofia close to my heart._

_Claudia, you would laugh to hear the racing thoughts of your brother now. I have come to admire Sofia with more affection than I thought possible. After the death of Cristina, something withered in me... But that feeling, that capacity for love, has returned. I adore Sofia, and I wish to share the part of my life that I have hidden from her. I plan to take her with me when I return to Italia, introduce her to you, and show her the Brotherhood. She marvels at adventure, and is eager to learn the secrets that I carry. I look forward to life with her in it, and when my work in Derinkuyu, the city in Cappadocia which I am headed, is complete, I consider taking her with me to Masyaf as well..._

* * *

It was a day and a half sail to Samsun, a former fishing village on the Black Sea that was swiftly becoming a thriving little city. Finished with his letter, Ezio left it on the ship for mailing. Piri disembarked with him, using his very official papers on how he was surveying areas to reconcile old maps for the mighty Sultan Bayezid. The two soon bought horses and a mule for their packs and started the long and arduous journey up into the mountains and through the valleys and passes that made the area so naturally defensible. Any who took the high ground had an instant win with simply rolling down the dry rocks and stones. They stopped off in several towns along the way, but none had seen signs of an army, no matter how subtle their questioning. Though it was tempting for Ezio and Piri both to spend the night in a nice little inn that guaranteed a soft bed, as neither were getting any younger, they never did, preferring to push that little bit further and camping in the cold so as to remain undetected. The higher mountains would show the occasional spurt of snow that melted swiftly as the day wore on and the weather went from cold to almost-warm when in the sun.

The trek was just over five days, and the closer they got the more Piri took abandoned game trails that looked like no human had traversed it in centuries. "I was born in Karaman," Piri explained, rubbing at his beard. "It was a three day walk to Derinkuyu."

"I see no evidence of an army here," Ezio said one day. "Surely we'd be seeing campfires or the dust of drills and marching by now."

Piri simply laughed. "Ezio, you must remember that your mountains of _Italya_ are little more than a flat plain compared to Anotolia."

That evening, the old sailor brought them to a tiny village that he said was Derinkuyu. Ezio looked around the almost empty town before offering a flat-eyed stare to Piri. The navy man only smiled and took them to an abandoned courtyard. He lifted a bush by the wall against the mountain and Ezio was surprised to see a cave. At first he thought that they'd be camping there rather than drawing attention to an abandoned dwelling, but deeper in Ezio saw light around a bend and then, the vast spread of the city.

Carved out of soft volcanic rock, a massive, _massive_ cavern spread out before them, hallowed out around a thick stalagmite that had to be yards in diameter at it's narrowest. Some of the architecture looked almost like ancient Roman design, but the rest was clearly hand carved with soft curved edges of homes and wooden supports against the exterior walls where more people were carving out more homes. Braziers were lit all around the city to provide light that the set sun couldn't. The homes were piled on top of each other, each carved out of the rock, with random mini tunnels going under a stack of homes to get from one level of streets to another.

"These types of city are all around Anatolia," Piri said with a level of hometown pride. "They were built starting, oh, over a thousand years ago. Almost two thousand. All to protect the town above from invaders by providing a safe place to store food, water, supplies, and such. Eventually the entire city was built. We have stables, schools, churches, mosques, stores and shops."

"I _am_ impressed," Ezio muttered in awe. In Roma, the leftovers from thousands of years ago were all ruined, crumbling, or continuously worked on like the aqueducts. Here it was... preserved and layered, as new construction mingled with old.

"Come," Piri smiled. "We'll find a stable, an inn, and start looking around tomorrow."

There was indeed an army hidden in this underground city. Piri and Ezio both saw it as they wandered the streets to get familiar with the city. The Byzantines weren't even bothering to hide their armor and clothes, patrolling the city like they were the peacekeeping force. Which, given the amount of Greek being spoken, they probably were. Ezio felt distinctly off-kilter, as his grasp of Greek was maybe every fourth word and he couldn't follow the hubbub around him. Piri was far better versed and kept a steady translation constantly.

"No signs of Tarik's men," Ezio muttered one evening after another fruitless day of searches.

Piri nodded gravely. "I've heard about a round-up of sorts," he said. "From the bits and pieces I've been able to put together, I think the Templars may have been able sniff out and capture most of Tarik's spies."

"Making them even harder to find."

"But not impossible," Piri replied. "I heard some interesting rumors south of here. I want to head there tomorrow and see if we can ferret out more information."

Ezio crossed his arms in thought. "I think I want to head more east. Though how one can tell direction without the sun is almost as unbelievable as this underground city."

Piri chuckled.

The following day they split and Ezio kept his eagle alert and scanning the crowds. He may not have enough Greek to follow conversations, but that wasn't his only method of search. By what Ezio could only assume was midmorning if he was reading the light from the hole by the stalactite right, Ezio was following a faint golden trail that his eagle always pointed to when he was searching. He found a dark-haired woman staring sulkily at the crowds of a small market. She was young, Sofia's age at maximum, with a stubborn set of jaw that reminded him of Caterina as she glared at the passersby.

He slipped through the crowds easily, but he made sure that she could see him as he cautiously approached. Her eyes narrowed the closer he got, until she disappeared in a passage behind her that Ezio did not see as it was hidden by a hanging rug. He swiftly gave chase. She was fast, and was good at using the crowds to her advantage, but Ezio had decades of experience compared to her and was behind her in no time. He reached out to grab her arm and she whirled with a knife in hand.

"Not so close, _adi herif_!" she growled.

Oh yes, definitely like Caterina.

"Easy now," Ezio said softly, keeping his hands raised. "Tarik sent me."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously and Ezio said the password Tarik had provided.

"Only you?" she asked, incredulous. "Why not more?"

"I am with one other. We are enough," Ezio replied as she sheathed her blade. Ezio kept his hands raised just in case. "Where are your men?"

"Captured by Byzantines over a week ago," she growled. "I was dressed to look like a slave, and managed to escape." Her frown deepened as her eyes watered. "But... the others..." She blinked and looked at him with fresh eyes. "Are you and your companion capable fighters?"

Ezio smiled in full Florentine irony, dropping his hands. "I like to think so."

She scoffed. "Well, when you are certain, come find me."

Holding back a chuckle, Ezio pulled out his water-skin and slung an arm around the prickly woman. "Act annoyed," he whispered, before breaking out into a thickly-accented Italian drinking song.

"What are you-" she hissed, surprised at his sudden leaning into her side and almost staggered into the street.

"My inn is that way," Ezio gestured vaguely, still in thick Italian.

"I _don't_ speak—"

Ezio switched back to Turkish as he leaned into her ear. "Up two levels, behind me and further back the way we came." Then he switched songs and staggered in a different direction, nearly sending the woman collapsing with him. It gave her the perfect opportunity to spy the Byzantine rifleman studying them with slowly waning interest.

So the woman started cursing in Greek, attempting to drag Ezio along back to the inn. Ezio kept playing the drunk, though his drunkenness lessened the closer they came to the inn. Piri was in their room when they arrived.

"Ah," Piri stood, greeting. "Dilara, if I'm not mistaken. The harem girl Tarik freed."

"Aren't you well informed," she groused. "The two of you? Tarik sent me a pair of old men?"

Both Piri and Ezio chuckled.

The rest of the night was spent going over what had been happening to Tarik's men. Dilara was the leader, though none knew it, and instead they took orders from her husband Janos. Janos was incredibly competent but seemed to lack the creative flair that Dilara herself brought. They had been a mere ten when they had arrived a year ago, but had been steadily growing support. "The Byzantines might as well be slavers. Their armies do whatever they want, grab girls, take food, anything. It hasn't been hard to build up support, but people willing to act has been a different matter." Dilara and Janos had taken to going from home to home of those they were certain were already on their side, and start talking of possible ways to help that would be unobtrusive. Ways to fight back without having to stand out.

"It's been working too. But then those damn Templars started plucking us right off the streets and now everyone hides again."

So the following day, the three took to the streets again, but with firmer purpose in mind. Ezio had Dilara take him to everyone she had been speaking to, his eagle awake and seeking. He quietly pointed out the people who were too curious for Dilara, and for Piri, he merely gestured and the old sailor nodded, already knowing the rumors of Ezio's abilities. With so few, it took the better part of a week to hunt down the traitors and spies, and Dilara clearly wasn't a good public speaker when it came to convincing people to help. Her more direct manner and blunt phrasing tended to upset, rather than inspire. But Ezio did not know enough Greek to help and Piri didn't wish to be known, given his standing at the Sublime Porte.

They were able to start gathering Dilara's hidden supporters into another cavern that was only accessible through such a narrow space, one had to get on one's stomach and shimmy in. It appeared to be an old attempt at a tunnel that had likely been abandoned in need of other projects.

Ezio and Piri started to offer polite suggestions to the men, seeing as they didn't listen well to Dilara without her husband as intermediary. Organization started to work better after that.

Until Dilara disappeared.

" _Merda_ ," Ezio growled when she didn't show up. "She's probably been caught."

"We'll have to hurry," Piri nodded. "The Byzantines will start training with those fake rifles once they have enough proper snipers to show them how and the rest of the commanders arrive, and I doubt that will take much longer."

"We should split up to look for her."

"No, Ezio," Piri put his hand on Ezio's shoulder. "I'll stay and keep organizing her little resistance force. You still can't pronounce enough Greek to get your point across. You are far better suited to finding her with your talents."

Ezio offered a wry grin. "You are far too kind."

He headed to the southeast corner of the underground city, though telling direction was hard with only the sun coming from holes in the ceiling above rather than an open sky. He weaved through the crowds, his steps determined but not in a hurry. Eventually he came near the prison area, which was where he suspected Dilara might be. She had been getting more and more frustrated without Janos there to do the talking for her, and she hadn't liked how little information they were able to get about the prisons where both her husband and their men likely were.

Passing a pair of chatting pikemen, Ezio's eagle flared, and the Florentine sat down to pretend to rub achy knees.

They were speaking in Greek, and Ezio didn't understand much. But there _were_ certain words he had learned in order to move about this underground city. There was talk of "Sultan's spy" and "disguise" and "harlot". The rest Ezio didn't bother to try and parse as he took to the streets again to get to the prisons.

The prisons were carved into walls off a branch pathway that was barely wide enough for two horses abreast, and guarded by Byzantines in a line. Ezio observed from a distance in the poor firelight and sunlight. However, the tunnel also had support beams above, likely from the last time it had been carved out, so Ezio swiftly climbed to the roofs to get to the beams and over the guards. Once in the prison area, he eased along carefully, ducking into shadows and using his heavy brown cloak to hide with the volcanic rock and its shadows.

The tunnel opened to a larger cave system and Ezio ducked behind one of the air shafts to observe. Palaiologos was there with a small contingent of guards, and the masked man Ezio had seen when Tarik had set up the buy. They were discussing, thankfully in Turkish, how the last of the preparations were nearly ready to start training their soldiers.

"The last of the riflemen will be here by the end of the week, a day or two to set up multiple practice ranges in the caves, and then we can begin training," the masked man said, his voice gravely and harsh and deep.

"Excellent," Palaiologos nodded, rubbing his heavy white beard. "How soon before my soldiers are trained in their use?

"A few weeks at most," the masked man replied.

Palaiologos nodded. "The Janissaries will know I have betrayed them by now, as payment never arrived. But do they have the resources for retribution? You've fought them, Shakulu, what do you think?"

"Doubtful," Shakulu replied. Ezio narrowed his eyes. Word had come to Istanbul that Shakulu had died last summer. "The Sultan's battle with Selim commands most of their attention. It is how I was able to escape."

Palaiologos chuckled the type of laugh Ezio associated with those who smoked the _hookah_ too long, then coughed and rubbed at his nose. "Ah! What the hell is that smell?"

"Apologies, Manuel," Shakulu intoned, though he didn't sound sorry or regretful, but instead, proud. "Some of these Ottoman prisoners are so... fragile."

"Shakulu," Palaiologos said in a mollifying yet firm tone, "try to moderate your anger. I know the Sultan humiliated your people. He _conquered_ mine. But there is no need to spit on men who are beneath us. We are the upper echelons of humanity. We are nobility. They are dirt. Why muddy yourself?" Palaiologos pulled out a dainty handkerchief and delicately blew his nose. "Now, I'll be on my way. Make sure our men get good training."

"Hmmm."

Palaiologos left through a different tunnel, his entourage of guards following.

Ezio ducked lower behind the air vent, pondering his options.

Behind, Shakulu was grunting out orders with his rough, gravelly voice. He wanted the woman prisoner brought to the "chapel" for interrogation with the other Ottomans that were left. So Dilara was alive and so were some of her people, but not all. That said something about the tortures that Shakulu would inflict. The bodies in the darkened corners of the prisons all bore scars Ezio wished on no one. Ezio was going to have to sneak back out to this chapel once he had freed Dilara. She likely knew the way. Shakulu stalked away, unaware he was within a breath of Ezio, but Ezio couldn't strike lest every guard in the prison came down on him.

Behind, the guards started fearful whispers. Ezio could make out the word "key" and the name "Nikolos", and from the tone, Ezio could piece together that none of the guards likely had the key for Dilara's cell, and Nikolos did, wherever he was. They all headed out, likely to hunt down the wayward Byzantine, so Ezio slipped forward. He checked the cells, but all were empty of anything but dead bodies, and he moved to the next room, where only one cell had a living occupant.

"You took your time," Dilara grumbled.

"You are welcome," Ezio gave a slight bow as he started to pick the lock.

"I haven't found my men," she muttered, looking away. Ezio could see in the torchlight that she had been beaten, likely in her fight to prevent getting caught.

"Can you move?"

"Nothing beyond bruises," she retorted. "And _no_ sign of my men."

"They are at a place called the chapel," Ezio replied. "You can lead me there."

"Fine."

Once she was free, they were both sticking to the shadows back to the previous room. The smell permeated the room and Ezio started to dart through, but Dilara had paused. " _Aman Allahim_!" she gasped. "What is that? _Theodosios_? But he's... he's..."

Missing fingernails and toes from his interrogation. Ezio came forward and deliberately stood in front of her blocking her view. "Not everyone was held prisoner for long," Ezio explained.

" _Allah sizi kutsasin_ ," she prayed for them. "That butcher did this," she growled, glaring past Ezio. "Shakulu. I'll _kill_ him!"

Ezio firmly grabbed her arm and yanked her back. " _Wait_!"

"Let me _go_!"

"You do not cooperate very well," he replied.

"I am here to rescue my people and take down the Byzantines," she bit back, " _not_ make friends."

"And you would commit suicide now to do so? Will that work?" he said, not giving an inch when surrounded by dead allies. "Will joining these bodies help your cause?"

She glared at him, full of hate.

"We will go and get Piri and the rest of your people. You all can free each other while I deal with Shakulu."

"I'll be the one to kill him," she insisted.

"Only if you can take any one of my blades."

" _Blades_?" she laughed. "I but see a sword. And that is easily lifted."

But Ezio had already pushed her into the bodies. He stood in the firelight and pulled back his cloak. She glared at him, but he slowly showed the knife in his boot, the many throwing knives hidden in his belts and sashes, and finally he released his hidden blades. "You cannot take a single one if you don't even know they are there," he replied. Then he stood firmly. "Passion is blinding you and you're not thinking. Shakulu is armed as much as I, but you don't even know it. The sword is obvious, maybe the knife in his boot, but the dagger hidden in his sash? I doubt you would have seen any of them. And his armor is too thick for bullets or crossbows, you have to get in close to get at the natural openings, which is what he wants. In one-on-one combat, he will have an advantage."

"So you're saying I just _let_ my people die?" Dilara fired back.

"No. I'm saying free your people. Killing one man does not free a people. It only kills one man," Ezio continued to stand firm. He could not pass on his wisdom as Altaïr had, but this lesson _would_ be learned. "Freedom comes once people seek that freedom. The work you've been doing, _that_ is how to free a people. That is how people will be ready to realize that they can fight back and are free. Then, when Shakulu is dead, they can celebrate. But one person committing suicide doesn't show others how to be free. It only shows them a fool."

Dilara scratched at her eyes, still on the bodies of her friends and allies, and said nothing for a while.

"Fine, _pich_ ," she grimaced. "We'll do it your way."

It didn't take more than an hour to rally Piri and the rest of Dilara's tiny resistance. They were to wait in the crowds and start freeing people when they could. Piri would likely be the best at it, with his Assassin training, but either way, it would restore their strength and boost their moral.

Sneaking up to the chapel was not easy. The spies were barely trained in the year Dilara and her people had with them, but Ezio and Piri were great at distractions and managed to get them all up to the chapel Shakulu had mentioned without losing anyone.

"Right there," Dilara said, crouching on a nearby roof with Ezio.

They looked down as Piri started placing people in the crowd near where the prisoners were gathered and cowering. The square in front of the chapel was under a hole in the ceiling that let in the early spring light and an occasional smell of pleasantness in the horror going down below them. The Byzantines formed a riotously cheering ring that Shakulu played to like it was a performance. Blood painted the ground and stained the stone as a body was dragged away and simply tossed onto a pile. Ezio couldn't tell if they were alive or not.

As Shakulu continued to play the crowd, another man was shoved into the circle.

"Janos," Dilara said grimly. "We _have_ to save him."

"You do your work," Ezio said, "and I'll do mine."

She started to protest but soon gasped as Ezio was already climbing outer remains of the chapel likely damaged in an earthquake. The skeleton of the structure was perfect for Ezio to run along and without anyone being around, he could use his eagle to see near perfectly in the spotty lighting and not lose any speed. There were riflemen stationed along the way, but Ezio could not tell if they had functioning rifles or not. He killed them along his way. Once up into the remains of the chapel, Ezio stepped out onto a bent and deformed cross.

Below Ezio could already see prisoners being quietly shuffled through the crowds as Piri directed the small resistance that Dilara and Janos had been building. The injured would be more difficult to move, but Ezio was about to provide the perfect distraction. Janos was still standing, and bobbing and weaving as best he could to avoid Shakulu's blows. Janos did not have much success, but, Ezio noted, he was good enough that he wasn't getting the full power of each blow.

Once Shakulu was almost directly under the cross, Ezio leapt. His hidden blade wouldn't cut through that thick armor so he would have to be more precise than he'd ever had to be before. He aimed at the cloth covering the junction of the neck and shoulder where the most likely edge of his armor would be.

The blade sunk in, nicking ribs and collarbone. Panic quickly surged around them, giving Piri and Dilara time to start grabbing the injured as the Byzantines stared. Ezio pulled out his blade and flicked the blood off it.

"Men who make a fetish out of murder," he said, "deserve no pity."

Blood was clearly pooling around Shakulu's neck, but the man wasn't dead as he opened his eyes and grabbed Ezio's throat and _squeezed_.

 _Merda_! His blade must have missed vital organs! Ezio gasped for breath, but the fingers only tightened. Instinct had Ezio extending his hidden blade and drive it under the shoulder harness to sever ligaments that moved the arm.

The arm fell away, but Shakulu only gasped a laugh as he lunged forward, shoving Ezio away.

 _Air_! Ezio coughed and pulled some of his shirt and armor away from his sensitive neck.

Struggling, Ezio stood, controlling his breath as best he could and assessing Shakulu. The sadist was also struggling to stand, bleeding from the neck and from the shoulder. Ezio had won, but the stubborn beast just didn't know it yet.

With one arm unable to be used, Shakulu staggered back to give himself room to pull out his hidden dagger, the only weapon he could grab, disabled as he was. Ezio let him as he needed the chance to catch his breath. He pulled out the sword of Altaïr, the steady blade that had accompanied him for decades, to control the reach. Shakulu would not be able to use his own sword, leaving Ezio with the advantages.

That was likely what Shakulu wanted, so Ezio kept his distance. Time was his ally as Shakulu would bleed to death before long.

But it seemed Shakulu wasn't to fight alone. A handful of the Byzantines stepped forward with their own swords and Ezio saw the renegade's plan. With Ezio distracted by the foot soldiers, Shakulu would be able to sneak in with his dagger.

Well. Ezio grinned. That just wasn't going to happen.

Though his neck ached and any ghost of movement by it made Ezio want to flinch, Ezio was still fresh and most likely the deadliest man alive. None of the foot soldiers could keep him from watching Shakulu and constantly keeping someone between Shakulu and himself. The Byzantines started to fall at his feet as Altaïr's ancient sword was strong enough to cut through their armor and impale them.

Slowly Shakulu started to stumble. Ezio surged forward, cutting down two more Byzantines. Shakulu straightened, his stumble being a ploy as he drove his dagger, but Ezio had easily ten to twenty years' experience over him. He deflected and held it away with his sword, and drove his hidden blade into Shakulu's exposed neck. Surprise flashed across his eyes, and whatever he attempted to say was lost as Ezio's hidden blade didn't let him speak. At last he collapsed and Ezio cleaned the blood of his sword and hidden blade on the renegade's clothes.

Turning, Ezio finally looked at the square. Most were gone, just a few of the resistance helping the wounded, and Piri administering what aid he could.

Dilara was by Janos, running a hand lightly along his bloodied face.

" _Sen chok yasha,_ Dilara," Janos said. His voice was pained, but he was already attempting to stand.

"Can you walk?" Dilara asked softly, all of her usual gruffness gone.

" _Evet_."

"Then let's leave before the Byzantines can regroup or inform Palaiologos," Ezio said.

The night was spent treating the wounds of those that had survived, and the small collection of resistance members that had been recollected throughout the underground city. They were terrified to see Dilara's men so badly beaten and wounded, and then they were moved almost to tears when each of the prisoners swore that they would continue to fight. It was a rally like Dilara and Janos were not expecting, and by the morning their numbers had doubled in size. Ezio and Piri talked quietly together that night, and that morning when their new numbers were assessed the two assassins pulled Dilara aside.

"You said the weapons you brought were fake," Ezio started.

" _Evet_ , most of them don't actually work. But the gunpowder is real. We could not fake that."

" _Bene_ ," Ezio said. "It's time we went on the offensive."

" _How_?" Dilara demanded, incredulous, pointing to the meeting behind her. "We hardly have an army back there."

"But we have enough for a surgical strike," Piri said, a slightly feral grin on his face. "It's time you used us to the best of your abilities. For example, I happen to know a thing or two about explosions."

There was a beat of silence, the information absorbing slowly before Dilara glowered. "Explosions?" she demanded. "If you do that, all hell will break loose. You will panic the entire city!"

" _Si_ ," Ezio said, nodding, "We are counting on it."

"And _then_ what?"

"Then I find Manuel Palaiologos."

"And kill dozens of innocent men and women in the process?"

" _Hayir_ ," Piri said. "That's what _you_ are for."

And the two laid out the plan: Piri, with his expertise, would sneak into the armory and explode the ordinance in such a way that the massive cavern would fill with smoke from the burning wood of the fortifications. Dilara, with her husband and resistance members, would guide the people up and above ground and prevent the panic that would follow. She was right that her numbers were small, but they were just the right size to handle the assignment. Ezio, meanwhile, with his eagle would pick out Manuel Palaiologos once he was finally smoked out, and then kill him; ending the Byzantine threat and demoralizing the Templar presence in the Ottoman Empire.

And he could get the last Masyaf key.

Anticipation started to fill him, but he quelled it, focusing instead in helping Janos explain the orders and drilling the spies a few times. They waited for a week to give the escaped prisoners time to recover; those that were more severely injured were stationed closer to the exits, and word swiftly spread that something big was going to happen.

Piri and Ezio exchanged a look, both knowing their assignments, both wishing the other the best, and both clasping hands before walking in opposite directions. Ezio took up position on a roof, eagle awake and soaking in everything. He wondered, as he waited, if his eagle would ever awaken to the point of Altaïr's, to be spread across his entire body, always alive, always giving him information. To have eyes like that... but he was content for what he had, and he realized that, in proof, he was content. The edge that had so permeated his life had softened, his depression was receding, and that thought made him suddenly think of Sofia. He missed her, hoped she was doing well with his month away, and that Yusuf wasn't teasing her _too_ much. She had likely returned from her trip by now. He looked forward to taking her to Venezia, to Firenze and Roma, he wondered what Claudia and Federica would say upon meeting her, or Niccolò or Leonardo. He hadn't been to Milano in years; this trip would be full of stops and visits. Would there be anyone she wanted him to meet?

He whiled away his time wondering, thoughts blinking back and forth in the dim light as he waited for Piri's work to be done.

His eagle sensed it a split second before it happened. After almost three hours of waiting, the armory exploded, a great fiery ball of light and flame rising up from behind wooden stakes whose tips quickly caught fire. Loose dirt and rocks showered from above like rain as the entire cavern vibrated, and smoke poured up to the ceiling, building and building until it was covered and began to lower into the cavern. Everyone was screaming, running, shrieking. Ezio saw the wounded Janos pointing and shouting orders below, escorting some twenty terrified people who were clinging to his calm voice as he lead them to the exits. Directionality was pitiful at first, chaos having erupted in the underground cavern. That was exactly what Ezio had been counting on, and his eagle swept over the smoky crowds and buildings, searching, _searching_ , until at last he saw a hint of gold and ran towards it.

Palaiologos was atop one of the higher branch paths, shouting at the panicked people below and giving some kind of rising oratory in Greek that Ezio could only barely pick apart, something about citizens, Constantinopoli, lords, and Byzantines. The rhetoric fell empty, however, because _no one_ was listening to him; survival had superseded any need for authority, and the people only listened to those who could promise safety: Dilara and her spies.

Palaiologos growled that none listened, until he looked up in the dimming light and saw one aging eagle advancing at full speed.

"Ah, _skatá_ ," Ezio heard, and then a frantic order to the soldiers around him. Palaiologos ran, leaving his men to do the fighting for him, but Ezio blew past them at blinding speed, unwilling to waste energy on men of lower rank when severing the head was so much more important. He heard startled curses behind him, confusion and then slightly desperate moves to follow, but his eagle tuned it out, following the golden trail that the Greek Byzantine had left behind as it winded through narrow alleys and tunnels and passages. Palaiologos knew the terrain better than Ezio, could cut the corners faster, and by the time Ezio had caught up he found himself at a major tunnel whose gates were closing, Manuel on the far side.

"Stop and think for a moment!" the old man panted. "Think about the lives you have disrupted today, the anarchy you have sewn here!"

The shrieks echoing off the walls of the cavern, the smoke sifting down into the breathable air, the thunderous stampede of a riotous exit, all tried to prove Palaiologos' point, but Ezio believed in Dilara and her husband, the natives of the underground city who had hated the Templars barging in on their home and taking over their lives, _they_ would make sure everyone was looked after, safe, protected as the events unfolded. It was fallacy to think that Ezio had sewn anything resembling anarchy; if anything he and Piri had strengthened bonds, created new ones, united the people in a way that rarely happened in this day and age. He didn't even bother to answer the Greek's attempt at diplomacy, instead dashing full speed at the gate and leaping up, his hookblade catching the top of the rough wood and giving him purchase as he leapt over it, landing almost lightly on his feet. Palaiologos had run again, down the twisting tunnel and several stairs to a dock of the massive underground river that was the water supply of the underground city. Above were tiny holes drilled into the ceiling, the wells that branched up to the many levels of Derinkuyu and puffing smoke from the panicked city above them. The Greek Byzantine was at the dock, searching – desperately, it seemed – for a boat of some kind. He turned, eyes wide, as Ezio approached ominously.

"You!" he panted, exhausted from running with his great girth. "You take advantage of a poor and displaced people, using us to further your own vain quest! We were trampled by the Ottomans, cast out and forced to flee from our home, bereft of the leadership we were rightly owed. How long did we have to wait in depravity until our millet was recognized? How much bowing and scraping do we do even now to those Turkish masters? And even now those _vláka_ quarrel over who will inherit, they are unworthy of the power they possess! But we fight for dignity, Assassin. We fight to restore peace to this troubled land."

Ezio had heard this kind of rhetoric before. "Templars are always quick to talk of peace," he said, "but very slow to concede power."

Palaiologos was contemptuous. "Because power _begets_ peace, _vláka_! It cannot happen in reverse. These people would drown without a firm hand to lift them up, and keep them in line!"

Ezio stepped forward, eyes narrow and flicking his hidden blade to its full length. "There he is," he said softly, his rich baritone menacing. "The monster I came to kill."

"I should have been Constantine's successor!" the Greek shouted, death upon him. "I had so many plans."

"Your dream dies with you, Manuel. Your empire is gone."

Ezio stabbed him, up and with a twist, into the lung for a nearly bloodless death. Palaiologos grunted, falling almost immediately to the ground. "Ah, but I am not the only one with this vision, Assassin," he said, still trying to gain some kind of victory in this conversation, still trying to equivocate, still trying to prove he was right. "The dream of our Order is universal. Do you think only the Greek are Templars? I had Turks, Balkians, Arabs, Italians even Ottomans, all under our sway. Ottoman, Byzantine... these are only labels. Costumes and facades. Beneath these trappings, all Templars are part of the same family. You have killed Borgia, you have killed me, but you have not killed _us_ , you will _never_ kill _all_ of _us_."

"Enough prattling," Ezio said; blood was dribbling out of the old man's mouth, staining his white beard. There wasn't much time left for last rites. "I am here for the Masyaf Key."

"... Then take it," Palaiologos said, patting at a pouch on his opulent sash. "Take it and seek your fortune. See if you get within one hundred leagues of that library before one of us finishes you off."

"... _Requiescat in pace_ , old man."

And Ezio looted the corpse and looked at the key, its light as ever shining in the darkness. Over the sound of the flowing water, Ezio heard the distinct splash of oars, and turned to see a light at the bow of a boat that was steadily rowing down the river. Standing by the light was a face Ezio did not expect to see.

Ahmet looked on coldly, staring down at the body at Ezio's feet.

"Poor Manuel, last of the Palaiologi," he called out. The approaching light let Ezio see the Byzantines were rowing the boat and his eyes narrowed. It suddenly all made sense. Palaiologos couldn't have orchestrated all this alone. By making a bid for the Ottoman throne, he was getting support from _inside_ the Sublime Porte. Support that paid off heralds, hired Lysistrata, or the deacon. Someone inside who could counter every move Ezio made with Suleiman.

And what a high contact and support indeed.

"I should not have put him in charge of our Masyaf expedition," he called, shaking his head. Ezio's eagle shrieked and he turned to see the guards he had bypassed before were starting to pour in. "He was an arrogant man, Manuel," he called from his boat again, "impossible to keep in line. It's no wonder you discovered us at Masyaf with his pride thinking he could handle anything."

Ezio turned back to the Ottoman prince who was more Templar than Ottoman. "You disappoint me, Ahmet," he called back. "Why the Templars?"

"Because I am _tired_ of all these pointless blood feuds that pit father against son, brother against brother," Ahmet called back, his boat slowing but too far for Ezio to strike. "Fighting doesn't beget peace. To achieve peace, _true_ peace, mankind must think and move as one body, with one master mind."

"And you would promote yourself to so exalted a title?" Ezio retorted, keeping his stance loose. "You could claim to understand every culture, every religion, every belief system across the entire world and judge what is right and wrong? What is to be done? Do you truly think you have such wisdom?"

Ahmet ignored him. "The secrets of the Grand Temple will give us just that. And Altaïr will lead us there."

But Ezio already understood Altaïr's wisdom. It was forgiveness, patience, looking at a whole picture that was often difficult to see. It was not control or power.

"Delusions," he called back. "Altaïr's secrets are _not_ for you." They never would be with that method of thinking.

"I am not interested in arguing," Ahmet shouted back, his voice smooth and oily. He leaned forward, both hands on the railing, in a pitiful attempt to look intimidating. "I am here for the Masyaf keys."

But Ezio could not be intimidated by such a man, not ever. So instead, he played it smart. "Keys?" he called in query. "Are there more than this one?"

"So I have heard," Ahmet replied, just as smooth. And then the prince smiled, cruelty edging it. "Perhaps I should ask someone who knows better." He looked downriver, still smiling and Ezio felt something frigidly cold slip down his spine and take hold of his stomach. "Sofia Sartor. Is that her name?"

Sofia. Gentle, inquisitive, quick-witted, intelligent Sofia. Sofia who supported him, argued with him, perceived far too much, yet accepted it anyway. Sofia who had agreed to marry him. Sofia who understood he did something dangerous and helped when she could despite not knowing the details. Sofia the strong independent woman who made her own decisions and would not be bowed by anyone.

Sofia, the only person he could call family outside of the Assassins.

Rage burned through him, his eagle flaring in anger, screeching in hatred. Ezio took a step forward that wasn't an attempt at intimidation, it simply _was_. Ahmet, despite his distance, actually stepped back.

"She knows _nothing_!" Ezio shouted. "Leave her _be_!"

Ahmet only chuckled. "We shall see," he dragged out, once more trying to show he had the upper hand.

Which he did. He had a boat and intimate knowledge of the underground river and how to get out of there. Ezio would have to travel by land to even get to the Black Sea. And since Anatolia was the province Ahmet governed, he'd have to fight against every official, every patrol, every guard, between here and Istanbul.

Rage continued to burn him, boil him, cook him. "I will _kill_ you if you touch her!" he promised. "No just leader ever harms an innocent life, and you continue to prove that you will _never_ be a good Sultan!"

Ahmet only smiled. "I know you'll try to kill me. But you _will_ fail." A gesture and his oarsmen were rowing again.

Ezio didn't even bother to growl another insult. He'd have to run. To fly. To speed as fast as he could back to Sofia. The guards behind him were nowhere near as numerous as when he has been chasing Palaiologos through the city. The rest had likely sought to flee as well with all the fire and smoke. With a firm destination that was easily a week away at minimum, Ezio didn't bother with finesse or grace. He just mowed over all the guards in his path, racing back up to the hidden city and pulling out the wet cloth he'd kept damp for when Piri blew up the powder and holding it up to his nose.

The streets were close to empty at the base of the city, all the screams and panic coming from above. One of Dilara and Janos's resistance members was pounding from door to door to ensure everyone had left, and Ezio grabbed him for a guide to get out. The higher up they went through the maze of tunnels the thicker the smoke was, and Ezio's guide had to stop and rewet their cloths before making their way out again.

There were over six hundred entrances to Derinkuyu, all hidden in courtyards and houses. They exited and made their way out the mountain to where Janos was shouting instructions to the milling crowds to set up stations to start organizing the chaos. Ezio made his way there to find Piri. They needed to ride and fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say about this chapter, it followed the events of the game and there isn't much room to branch out. We did add Piri to the mix because it was just silly that the game introduced him as a bomb expert and not use him for the ultra-over-the-top-kitchen-sink-ACTION-sequence at the end of the memory. It also gave us the chance to shy away from the very gamey mission of planting explosions powerful enough to blowup the entire barricade and yet let Ezio live by hiding behind a wall. As we approach the end of the game that action-adventure of the game gets so bad it breaks suspension of disbelief. But more on that later.
> 
> Muslim Lesson: The hajj is the journey to Mecca, a city in Saudi Arabia, during the month of Dhu al-Hijjah. It honors not only Muhammed (peace be upon him) but also the tale of Abraham. Once a pilgrim is within 10 km of the city, one is expected to change into Ihram clothing, which are essentially two sheets draped over the body. The idea of Ihram clothing is to show equality: there is no visual or spiritual difference between a prince and a pauper.
> 
> Once in Mecca, the pilgrim goes through a series of rites. It's a little beyond the scope of these notes to explain everything, but highlights include walking around the Kaaba counter clockwise seven times; the Kaaba being the equivalent of the Jewish Temple Mount. It's a black-stoned cubical building in the center of the Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque, the most holy mosque in the world. When Muslims face Mecca to pray, it's the Kaaba they are facing. Pilgrims used to be able to kiss the black stone of the building, but given that modern day hajj have upwards of three million people a year, most just point to it while they walk around it.
> 
> After that, pilgrims travel out of Mecca to visit the city of Medina, specifically Mt. Arafat. After that is a ritual of "stoning the devil" to honor the trials of Abraham. After that Muslims purchase sacrifice vouchers (again, three million people) to represent the slaughtering of an animal and send the meat to poor people around the world. Then it's back to the Kabaa at the Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque for another walk. All of this is interspersed with prayers, and for the Muslims who don't or can't go to Mecca, they perform acts of charity because this is also the holiday of Eid ul-Adha. It is one massive, five day long (ish) display of solidarity, unity, and spirituality.
> 
> Next chapter: Yusuf. Suleiman. Topkapi.


	16. Yusuf Tazim da Istanbul

Unfortunately for Ezio, riding was not an option, the smoke filing out from the exits had scared away the horses, and Ezio started to curse vociferously. Piri was not there, either, and it was well into the next _day_ before he found his fellow assassin at one of their designated meeting places. Both of them were sooty and ashen, streaked in smoke as was everyone else milling about, waiting for the fire to burn out. Ezio quickly explained the most recent turn of events, that Palaiologos may be dead, but his partner was none other than Ahmet, son of Bayezid and contender for the throne. Piri cursed just as colorfully as Ezio had, and they had little time to linger. Dilara, also part of the meeting, vowed to join them as soon as things were settled in Derinkuyu; they had a city to restore and would follow in some two weeks. They received meager provisions and set out on foot. Ezio bowed to Piri, native of the area and knew how best to proceed.

"I would give all the maps I've made to get to the sea," he growled, rubbing soot from his face again. "But Ahmet would expect that, he would have all the major ports watched: Samsun, Sinop, Icel. We'll have to go by foot. That's seven hundred kilometers of mountains, and it's the end of March, damn it. Travel is going to be _miserable_."

"Then we must hurry," Ezio said. "Ahmet can't just waltz into Constantinopoli from his province, not with his brother and father fighting just on the other side of the Black Sea. He's been banking on their fighting depleting both of them, he's trying to keep a low profile. Ahmet won't just announce his arrival. That _might_ give us some time if we push hard."

"You haven't traveled these mountains, Ezio. When the sun's out the temperature will spike to heat, and then drop severe chill, even cold at night, _plus_ the winds of the higher elevations and the rain that wants to be snow overnight."

"Nevertheless, we must _hurry_."

" _Hayir,_ Ezio. We do this _my_ way."

And Ezio bowed to it, but not with any hint of grace. All his thoughts were consumed by Sofia and all that she had done in the last year. He thought of how they had met disembarking to Constantinopoli to begin with and Suleiman's quick action, of seeing her again at her shop and her curiosity of the hidden passage, of her insatiable flirting with him, of stopping by once a week to see how she was doing with the code breaking, and then once a week just to see how _she_ was doing. He thought of talking about his family at the southern docks, of picking tulips, of picnics and dinners above the shop, of her very bold declaration of her love for him, their quiet talks in the mornings. He thought about Yusuf nearly giving him a _heart attack_ when he brought her to the hideout, and he thought about all the plans he had made with her. Was she alright? Safe? _Alive_?

His rational mind fought with him constantly. Of _course_ she was alive, she was the bargaining chip Ahmet would use to get the keys from him. Of _course_ she was safe, Yusuf was a capable fighter and a charismatic leader. Of _course_ she was alright, because she was _Sofia Sartor_ , a woman who decided that life as a spinster would not be a detriment but an asset, who loved literature, philosophy, and romance, who had curiosity and intelligence and a perceptive eye that kept her the owner of her bookshop. All of these things colluded together to say that _everything was fine_.

But his heart refused to listen, and it pressed him into excess energy. He marched well ahead of Piri, not out of physical conditioning but out of emotional turmoil. The cartographer saw his obvious distress and let him alone for the most part, only taking the lead when he had to pick a path or explain why they were diverting.

And _God above_ , did they divert. Ahmet was the _shehzadem_ of the Anatolia province, and he had obviously left orders to capture and kill anyone in a hood and beard. Ezio and Piri were forced to take the most backward trails and detours, soldiers seemed to have infested the mountains. The aging grandmaster suggested using the underground rivers, but Piri nixed the idea when he explained that he didn't have them completely mapped; he couldn't guarantee where it came out, they were trying to be _quick_ , not _backwards_. Ezio cursed and followed the detours. Their meager supplies died out quickly, and the people of the province were as poor as any people controlled by Templars, leaving them with little to split and forced to live off the land. The mountains themselves were as unforgiving as Piri had suggested; they sweated in the day and shivered at night without blankets to keep them warm. Light rain sporadically made things even worse, slicking the roads with mud and making travel almost treacherous.

It was, in fact, _one month_ before they saw the city, and neither man was very happy for their journey. They were dirty, sweaty, hungry, and more than a little desperate for news. They stopped at the nearest bolthole that Yusuf had set up during their frenzied bid to hide after the assassination of Barleti. Sotiris was there with his daughter and his entire den, surprised to see them both. "Yusuf should have sent word!" he said.

"Not necessarily," Piri explained after barking for water and food. "Not when all letters were likely intercepted by Ahmet."

" _Shehzade_ Ahmet? Why?"

The review was quick and dirty, Ezio left Piri to do it as he himself had letters to compose.

_Forgive the haste of my handwriting Claudia. Much has transpired, and little of it good. I am finally back in Constantinopoli, in pursuit of a man whose treachery has eluded me until now. Prince Ahmet – Suleiman's uncle – is the man leading Templars here. He is the mastermind behind the Masyaf expedition, and he will stop at nothing to retrieve the keys, all of which are now in Assassin hands. I have been out of touch for the last month, traveling the back roads to get back to the city, and am yet to be fully apprised of the most recent news. Have our assassins completed their mission in Rhodes, or does Ahmet have reinforcements waiting in the wings for our inevitable meeting?_

_I have been careless: the Templars know about Sofia, and they are looking for her. Oh Claudia, if anything should happen to her, I could not live with myself. I have dragged her into a war she knows nothing about, and it will be my burden to bear if she comes to any harm. Ahmet threatened her as a bargaining chip for the keys, and I cannot break the Creed and let an innocent life be harmed. Moreover, I cannot let HER be harmed. She is as special to me as you and Federica are, and I am bereft of any other ideas to protect her than to bargain._

_I pray that a better appraisal of recent events will grant me clarity for a better idea._

Sotiris explained that things had been very quiet since they left, almost _too_ quiet. There had been no word from Yusuf, who had stayed behind with Azize to monitor the city and determine when it was safe to start smuggling themselves back into the city. He knew nothing of what was going on beyond the old Byzantine walls, only that if there was no word then the Janissaries were still looking for Ezio. "It's suicide for you to go into the city."

"No, it is suicide to let that man dictate our actions," Ezio said.

"Best not argue with him," Piri said, drinking heavily from a jug of water, "He's been working himself into a right thunderstorm since we escaped Cappadocia, and frankly I agree with him. I've never liked artificial boundaries."

"Gather the assassins," Ezio said in a dangerous voice. "Tonight we go back into the city."

* * *

By evening prayers all the major den leaders had been gathered, and as one they snuck into the city, smuggling themselves in hay carts, pilgrimages, and trade caravans. They assembled along the old north wall, moving into the abandoned mosque, moving down into the cistern, and hoping to find someone: Azize working at her desk as normal, Yusuf drinking his goat's milk by the fire. Nobody was there, and they all tried to hold on to hope even as dread began to fill them. Ezio made a beeline to his old quarters, picking up the Masyaf keys, looking at their light, thinking about all the lessons Altaïr had given him.

… He had yet to witness the revelations of the final key. He looked at it, debating, but pocketed it. If he got to Sofia first, then fine. Until then... Dogan had taken over the assassins, dismissing most of them to filter back to the dens or see to the novices and children and get them settled. The den leaders assembled with him and Yusuf's second nodded to Ezio and Piri. "We will go with you," he said simply. And so they crossed the channel in the dead of night, long after prayers, the moon peeking through the clouds and the air chilly, and stalked the streets south, past Kapalicharshi, past Ayasofya, and to the small, unassuming bookshop. Obelius, Sila, and Kasim took to the roofs while Meryem, Sotiris, and Fusun took positions in the square. Dogan, Piri, and Ezio entered the shop, hoping, praying, they were in time.

They were not.

The door opened to one Byzantine sprawled on the steps leading down into the main space of the shop, gutted and blood splattered all over the bookshelf. Another lay by the overturned desk, the massive wooden top kitty-cornered to be a shield. Books and scrolls littered the floor, many spattered with blood. The stench of death was both strong and old. This had happened days ago. " _Bok_ ," Dogan cursed. "Why did they not bury them?"

"To send a message," Ezio said, his heart warring between sinking to his feet and rising to his throat. Where was Yusuf? He had obviously put up one hell of a fight. Had he gone underground? Sofia...? Two more bodies were at the entryway to the back rooms, both still Byzantine, clear signs of swordplay and the distinctive slash of a hidden blade. In the back courtyard was another Byzantine, bringing the total up to five, blood was _everywhere_ , and to the left was— _Merda._

On a stone bench by one of the doors of the back room, a place Ezio and Sofia had spent many an afternoon talking and discussing literature or philosophy or romance, hunched over, was a form that had no business to be that still.

" _Hoshgeldin Kardeshim! Unless the legend is a lie, you are the man I long to meet. Renowned Master and Mentor, Ezio Audi... Auditero de... la la la!_ "

He was always moving, always grinning, always rushing from one meeting to the next, one assignment to the next.

" _Usta da Firenze!_ "

Yusuf Tazim was crumpled on that bench, still and heavy and curled. Dogan quietly gasped behind Ezio, all of them staring at the scene, all three uncomprehending of what they were looking at. Then Dogan ran outside, perhaps to be sick. Piri was utterly still, face hard. Ezio stared a little longer, memories of this dear man flitting back and forth in his head as he slowly ghosted over to the body.

" _Welcome to Konstantiniyye, Ezio. The crossroads of the world. Many generations of men have ruled this city, but they have never subdued her. She always bounces back._ "

" _Eh, I don't think I'll ever leave Istanbul, Usta, why would I leave jannah to try and find it somewhere else?_ "

He loved this city; he loved it as dearly as he loved the Order: the orphans and children and novices and apprentices and journeymen and assassins. He loved the back alleys, the endless fields of wood shingled roofs, the hills, the cisterns, the mosques, the smell of the _hookah_ and the morning fog during the rainy season. He loved Kizzy, who lived here, and Dogan and Sila and all the den masters. He shared his love with Ezio, always taking him on grand tours, always filled with facts about different sights and monuments, he gleefully escorted Ezio to the Hippodrome and the Forum of the Ox in honor of his Italian heritage, he gloried at the recent addition of the Kapalicharshi and the excellent acoustics of Ayasofya. He knew every beggar in Galata by their first name, and he was always willing to help those around him. Even Ezio.

" _Don't worry, Usta da Firenze. We'll straighten you out._ "

Yusuf had taken the time from his ridiculous schedule to make sure Ezio had what he needed; he assigned escorts to the aging grandmaster, he included Ezio in his meetings, he spent many an evening drinking with him, talking and sharing stories and trying to drag Ezio out of his depression. He poked endlessly over Sofia, teasing and cajoling, and bringing her to him when his need was the greatest. Yusuf's thoughtfulness seemed never ending, from his empathy to his fellow assassins to his compassion of the disillusioned. He was a man who always saw the best, and always laughed in the face of adversity. He had a wisdom that Ezio lacked, in that regard, and the Florentine knelt down, more memories asserting themselves.

" _I think who we are is defined by what we do, not what caused us to do them._ "

" _We can't blame Byzantines, we can't blame Palaiologos, we can't blame Usta, we can't even blame Barleti. This is what they mean when they use the word 'tragedy.' No one is at fault, and feeling otherwise will only make things worse._ "

" _Si_ , _Usta_ da Istanbul," Ezio whispered. "This _is_ what they mean by tragedy. But unlike then, there _is_ a man to blame." Slowly he reached out to ease his dear friend out of his heap, and only then did he see the dagger plunged into Yusuf's back, only then did he see the note pinned to it. Something burned deep in Ezio, and he gently removed the obstruction, tossing it aside as useless compared to the task he had given himself. Carefully, gently, he pulled Yusuf flat on the bench. His eyes were open, slightly pained, but a manic grin was on his face, happy to the end. "You have fought bravely, _kardashim_ , _brother_. Know that your death will not be in vain, know that your brotherhood will thrive, and know that we were _all_ honored to serve you."

" _Ezio, I barely have time to polish my blade!_ "

"You have earned your rest, _kardashim_. _Requiescat in pace._ " And, slowly, softly, he reached up: arms were crossed over his chest in prayer, and eyes were closed, leaving only the smile, the essence of Yusuf Tazim da Istanbul, the pride of the Ottoman _Suikastchi_ , the man who would go down in history as the man who led them through the crisis of the Little Judgment, who expanded their base and was a genius at recruitment and training, who would be known by the wide world as a man who loved the city he served and died protecting it, who worked tirelessly.

… And Ahmet would feel the teeth of the Order Yusuf had managed in his very _bones_. Ezio was never one to react well to death of those close to him. Most notably he spent twenty years finding the men responsible for the death of his father and brothers and killing them one by one. He was not Altaïr ibn La-Ahad, he did not have the capacity in him to forgive a killer so soon after a loss, and his passion prevented him from tempering his actions. The heat in his stomach turned to ice, and he made up his mind. He stood up slowly. Piri was grim faced, knowing what was about to happen; Dogan, pale and holding the bloody note, had assembled all the other den leaders, and they stared at the cadaver of their beloved mentor. Ezio leveled a hard look at Dogan, gaze flitting to the note and back up.

"The Arsenal," he said, voice bereft.

Ezio nodded. "First we bury him."

* * *

" _... Usta, I don't know what it is you're looking for, but know this: you have made a difference here. … I owe you a great debt, Ezio Auditore da Firenze, and I will spend the rest of my life paying it._ "

* * *

As soon as they crossed the channel, Meryem summoned a _bilal_ , and in the middle of the night the entire district was summoned to prayer under Galata Tower. Ezio, Dogan, Piri, and Kasim performed the washing of the body, once, twice, thrice, determined to cleanse Yusuf of the foul murder that had left him alone for days ( _days!_ ). The women and Sotiris explained to the confused people outside why they had been summoned to pray. Yusuf was well known in the district, and the news of his murder created screams of anguish and mourning amongst the crowds. Kizzy was heard cursing and shouting and threatening, nearly bursting in as Ezio and the others did their work.

Meryem was called in to sew closed the wounds of battle, which she did through her tears, and she provided simple white cotton from her den to act as a shroud: three pieces, each scented with a floral perfume.

After Yusuf was wrapped, the men carried him out. It was as though the entire district was collected under the tower, Ezio even in his grief was amazed to see the sheer number of people who knew Yusuf and mourned his death. He tried to multiply it by the people across the Halich, and the numbers were incalculable. It took hours for the mourners to say their goodbyes, but eventually an _imam_ was decided on and the funeral prayer began. Kizzy, Obelius, and the other non-Muslim prayed silently on their own. Ezio, agnostic, simply stood through the ceremony, cold and burning at the same time, mind already galloping ahead to the Arsenal, making plans, taking positions, determining how to best make Ahmet pay and pay _dearly_ for this most precious loss he had inflicted. He would not kill the prince, he still needed to find Sofia, but that did not mean he was going to be _merciful._

Dogan gave the supplication, slowly and in a cracked voice, begging Allah be merciful on Yusuf who had done so much in his life. After that, they moved Yusuf to the graveyard, where all the novices had been tasked to digging the grave. Their hands were muddy and they were in tears, but they had performed their assignment perfectly. Dogan lowered the enshrouded Yusuf, placing him on his right side and putting balls of dirt under his head, chin, and shoulder, making sure his head was facing towards the Kaaba in Mecca. Climbing out of the grave, Kizzy was screaming again, her grief making it hard to hear, and Sotiris gently ushered her away so that others could mourn quietly.

Everyone dropped fists of dirt onto the shroud, praying again, and the den mothers all took up shovels and began to bury him. Ezio watched the crowds beyond the graveyard, still praying, still mourning, Kizzy far off in the distance still wailing.

Dawn arrived, and _bilal_ shouted their call to prayers all across the city. The crowds slowly dispersed, hearts heavy, until only the assassins were left.

Finally, Ezio spoke.

"Now should be a time for remembrance and mourning, I know... but our enemies do not permit us that luxury." He turned to Dogan. "Yusuf thought highly of you, _Suikastchi_. And I find no reason to second-guess this judgment. Do you have it in your heart to lead these men and women, and to maintain the dignity of our Order as Yusuf did with such passion?"

"It would be an honor," he said, face streaked with tears.

" _Bene_. I am glad." He turned to the assassins. "Brothers. Sisters. The whole city rises against us while Yusuf's murderer waits and watches from the arsenal, _laughing_. Ahmet thinks he has won, that he had demoralized us and instilled fear; he thinks savagely killing Yusuf would break us. He has not broken _me_." Many others nodded and murmured their assent, fire slowly filling their eyes. "Even now, he sits in the Arsenal, expecting us to come to him and beg forgiveness, to turn ourselves over and be whipped into submission. He already thinks himself _sultan,_ and he wants to subject us to his will. His _Templar_ will. I bow to _no one_. I will not give that man what he wants, nor what he expects. I go there to _fight._ Fight with me, and show him what it means to cross the _Suikastchi_."

Everyone nodded, and Dogan was quick to divvy up the assassins.

At noon, over a hundred assassins were massed around the Arsenal. A skeleton collection of adults were left behind to mind the children and orphans at the hideout. Apprentices and journeymen were stationed around the walls to prevent passerby and those too curious from entering, and if needs be hold back the Ottomans while the assassins retreated, leaving the seven den leaders and their fully trained assassins, plus Ezio and Piri, to make war on whoever was inside. Some came in through the gate, decoys, and the rest used the underground tunnel, the memory of its last use paining Ezio.

He closed his eyes, putting Yusuf to rest, knowing there was nothing more to do and resolving to paint his portrait later. Now, however, _now_ he had to focus on what he could do. Save Sofia. Pull her out of this war, hope she would still have him after this "adventure." A deep breath, and he emerged into the Arsenal.

The decoys were in full combat, Sotiris and Obelius back to back with sword and mace respectively. Obelius was young and powerful, Sotiris experienced and agile; they complimented each other well. Above them Sila was dancing circles around the rooftops, untouchable at her speed, using her hidden blade to assault archers and arms-men and gone before they even realized what was happening. Also on the roofs was Piri, having brought a small arsenal of bombs and using them to great strategic effect. Fusun's agility was remarkable, her years as a Romani giving her the flexibility to dodge any weapon levered against her; she moved snakelike through the throngs, poisoned dagger leaving a wave of bodies in her wake. Meryem was dressed once more as a man, a Janissary, and killing enemies from behind who thought she was an ally. Kasim, grim faced and determined, covered her. They were den masters for a reason, and their prowess in battle would be the stuff of legends for the Order for years to come.

Sotiris knocked an enemy down with a cudgel while Obelius threw a hidden dagger at a guard who was trying to chase Sila as she leapt upon a marksman who was trying to fire on Piri who tossed a bomb to support Fusun as she poisoned another guard and danced by Meryem as she took on two Janissaries at once as Kasim snuck behind the pair to impale one before shouting a warning to Sotiris.

Dogan drifted from Ezio's side, shouting orders that were quickly made and cleverly executed. The Ottoman guards had no idea what hit them, and between eight master assassins and all their underlings they were forced back and back and back. Ezio left them to their work, let them draw more and more reinforcements away from Ahmet.

Irony placed Ahmet at the warehouse at the far end of the dry dock, where Ezio and Yusuf discovered the dirty deal between Barleti and Palaiologos. Did Ahmet know that was happening? … No, else he would have stopped it.

Ahmet was there, alone, and rage boiled up in Ezio. He thought of Yusuf, now dead and buried, of the long list of losses he had at the hands of the Templars; and most importantly he thought of Sofia, innocent of any wrongdoing and in _this man's hands_ for no other reason than to _bargain_. This _pezzo di merda figlio di puttana_ had taken his beloved, and he would _pay bitterly_ for that sin. The Ottoman prince turned, seeing Ezio stalk to him and openly smiled.

"Where is she?" Ezio asked in a low voice.

Ahmet laughed. Actually _laughed_. "Such fury!" he mocked.

Ezio replied by grabbing the soft man and throwing him to the ground, straddling him and jamming his hidden blade into the cobblestone by his head, inches from his neck. " _Where is she!_ "

The Templar was paler, then, his near death riveting his body even if his mouth continued to play games. "If you think you are in a position to negotiate, kill me and be done with it!"

The words were slow to sink into Ezio's head, he rather enjoyed having his hidden blade so close to the arteries of the neck, but thirty years of being an assassin had taught him patience, and granted him some small forms of wisdom. Ahmet thought himself already won; he laughed not to goad Ezio but because he thought he could _afford_ to. He wanted to talk, to gloat.

Just like a Borgia.

He was overconfident, secure in his perceived victory, and that would – Ezio gambled – make him sloppy. So Ezio finally decided to let him talk, retracting his blade and standing, glowering over his target but keeping silent, letting the other man think whatever he wanted. And he waited.

Ahmet did not wait long. He stood, rubbing his neck.

"I am sorry it had to come to this," he said, some measure of respect in his words. "Two men who should be friends, quarreling over the keys to a library. We are both powerful men, in command of influence, power, and means. We are both idealists, who look at the people we shepherd and wish the best for them. We both strive for the same end, Ezio. Only our methods differ; do you not see that? Peace in all things. Stability. A world where men live without fear. The ends are the same on both sides of our ideals. We should be working _together_."

"Says the man whose Templar Order would control the minds of men," Ezio replied, eyes cold, heart cold. The last thing he wanted was a philosophical debate, but if that got him to slip up about the location of Sofia, so much the better. "You would hide the truth from you people: that they have no say in their lives, that they live an illusion that you control and shape."

"Truth?" Ahmet said, the word spitting out of his mouth. "People desire the truth, yes, but even when they have it, they refuse to look, let alone believe, let alone _learn_. How do we fight this kind of ignorance? It is pernicious, unquenchable, and even if we manage to go beyond it for an entire generation, the very next generation repeats the exact same challenge. What's the point?"

Ezio ground his teeth. "Liberty can be messy, Ahmet. But it is _priceless_."

"Of course," Ahmet scoffed, frustrated and bitter. "And when things fall apart, and the lights of civilization dim, Ezio Auditore can stand above the darkness and say proudly, 'I stayed true to my Creed.' "

"That is the difference between you and I," Ezio said, starting to doubt his decision to let this man talk but still forced to play his gambit. "You have given up on humanity, you think the struggle itself worthless, unfulfilling. You want it all to be over and done with and glow over your successes, you think that peace is a static state, that if it is only achieved then everything else will fall into place. You don't understand what peace really is, and you don't understand that it as fluid as the Halich."

Ahmet's face hardened. His efforts to turn Ezio had failed, and much like his giving up on humanity, he gave up on Ezio. Instead, he stepped into the grandmaster's personal space and pointed a finger, face intent. "I _will_ open that library, and I _will_ find the Grand Temple. And with the power that is hidden there, I will destroy the superstitions that keep men divided."

The negotiations were over. "Not in this life, Ahmet."

Any respect Ahmet held for Ezio disappeared from his face, and the contempt uglied his features. He, too, was done negotiating. "Bring the seals to Galata Tower when you are ready. Do this and Sofia will be spared."

Ezio's heart clenched.

Ahmet turned to leave, but he stopped, as if remembering something. "My brother's army will be here soon, Ezio. After that, everything changes."

Ahmet left.

Ezio cursed in every language he knew, grabbing a bomb at his waist and lighting it before launching it into the air, the explosion alerting the assassins that the meeting was over and it was time to regroup. Ezio paced back and forth, still cursing, trying to figure out what he was going to do. The assault had not worked, Ahmet had not had Sofia with him, nor had he let slip where she had been sequestered. There was nothing, truly _nothing_ gained from this venture, and he was back to start; in possession of all the keys and expected to just hand them over in exchange for Sofia's safety. What more could he do? What else _could_ he do? This was not some literary allegory, one of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales to infer a lesson, or a tale of knights and dragons. Sofia's _life_ was at stake just as the Masyaf library and all its lost knowledge was. One did not equate to the other, but Ezio could not reconcile sacrificing one to save the other: one brought him happiness, and the other would likely be a means of protecting the _world_. How did one make that kind of decision?

Dogan and the den masters and Piri, bloody but resolute, joined him in the warehouse.

"The others are in the tunnels, _Usta_ ," Dogan said in a grim voice. "There were losses. They and the injured are going back to Galata to Mazhar, and the rest are awaiting news. Were we successful?"

"... No."

" _Bok_."

"What is in this library that is so important?" Kasim asked.

"That's not the right question," Sotiris said, "The right question is why is that Byzantine Templar Ahmet so desperate to have the library that he's gone to all this trouble?"

"And where is his honor that he uses a hostage?" Obelius said.

A soft gasp came from Meryem, eyes wide as she pointed, and everyone turned to see... wait, what?

Suleiman, pale and sad-faced, quietly walked up to the group of gathered assassins. He gave assessing glances to everyone, eyes lingering on Piri, but stopped just short of Ezio. His head was bowed in emotion, though his face was almost calm, and Ezio realized why the boy was there.

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

"... Long enough," he replied quietly. "He disappeared right after Tarik's... after Tarik's death. The _shehzadem_ have immunity from the investigation, and after his extended concern about how Tarik's death made him look, I thought it strange that he would just... leave, knowing how that, too, would make him look. I had _Amca_ tailed as soon as he returned, but I never expected to hear..." he gestured vaguely, "all this."

Ezio threw a glance at Dogan, the new Mentor, but he bowed his head, giving Ezio discretion. The others watched carefully, shifting on their feet and uncertain what to do with what was happening. Almost none of them had seen a _shehzadem_ before, and all of them knew how badly they needed a man inside Topkapi, and they all knew that Yusuf had wanted to wait. _I'm sorry, old friend,_ Ezio thought, _but your Order cannot afford to wait any more._ To Suleiman he chose his words carefully. "And what do you think?"

Suleiman sighed, several emotions flitting over his face as he mused over the complicated knot of his family. Of his uncle. "... He is a sincere man," he said finally. "He has said often that I am his favorite, and I believe him when he says that he and _Baba_ were close once. He truly believes that he is doing what is right." He paused, letting the words hang, before continuing: "But this Templar fantasy of his is dangerous. It flies in the face of reality. The world is a tapestry of many colors and patterns. A just leader would celebrate this, not seek to unravel it."

Ezio nodded, gauging, assessing. "He fears the disorder that comes from difference."

Suleiman shook his head, his eyes bright as he looked Ezio in the eye. "That is why we make laws to live by, a _kanun_ that applies to all in equal measure. We all have our chance to live our own way, we live as we believe, and we learn that other beliefs are of equal value because they have that value under the _kanun_. It is the law that grants that kind of equality, and from that, equality grows in the heart of _men_. It is this way that peace is held while maintaining diversity. It is the very fear of the disorder of difference that _creates_ unrest in the first place."

" _Shehzadem_ , stand back!"

Everyone turned to see a small contingent of Janissaries approaching, swords drawn.

"These are the men who laid attack on the Arsenal, they are dangerous! Stand back!"

But the boy was once again a man, standing to his full height and holding out a hand. "Hold, soldier. These men and women are not our enemies. It was _they_ who protected me from the attack last year, and they have just informed me of the name of its perpetrator. Gather your men. We are going to Topkapi, and we are to meet my _Amca_."

"But... the assault on the Arsenal..."

"Was to kill the Byzantines," Dogan said. "Did you look at the faces under those _börk_? They weren't Janissaries, they were Byzantines disguised as Janissaries to sneak into your midst and do who knew what."

"Go," Suleiman said, "Confirm this man's words. You may be surprised."

The Janissary pair was poleaxed, but quickly disappeared to confirm the truth of it.

Ezio, meanwhile, was smiling in spite of his anxiety. "What a challenge it would be to have a son like you."

The prince was a boy again, offering a soft grin that showed his youth. "You are not dead yet, old friend. Let us go to Topkapi; you will be my escort until the Janissaries catch up."

" _Bene_. Fusun, gather our forces in the tunnels and meet us at the Gate of Salutation."

"Me? Why me?" she demanded, ever sour.

Obelius was quick to quip under his breath. "Because your wit will get everyone there faster."

Along the way, Ezio dutifully reported everything he had learned over the course of his investigation: the collusion with Palaiologos, the desire to gain access to an old assassin library for rumors of its knowledge, and location of the Grand Temple.

"What is the Grand Temple?"

"I do not know."

Ezio explained that Sofia and Azize were missing, one to bargain and the other likely dead. The tightness in Ezio's voice as he explained it said everything Suleiman needed to know, and the Florentine grandmaster talked briefly of Yusuf Tazim da Istanbul, of his bravery and duty and passion. The young prince bowed his head, reticent; but his face showed more and more resignation over the lengths his uncle had gone to pursue his goals.

They arrived at Topkapi in the evening, two hours before prayers and just after the supper hour. Suleiman gathered every Janissary he could find, explaining away Ezio and his assassins by saying that he had concluded his investigation into the attack last August and they needed to report to Ahmet. The Janissaries from the Arsenal also had their own reports to give, and word spread like wildfire of the disguised soldiers and the assassins boldly defending the Janissary name in combat. Things were happening a little fast for Ezio – or rather a little fast when he didn't have any direct control over how the events were unfolding. This was Suleiman's show, and he was skillfully doing what was necessary to set it up. When all was said and done, the Janissaries were massed about the Imperial Council building, Ahmet beyond the doors, and Suleiman grabbing Ezio's elbow, making one last request.

"Ezio," he said softly, a long pause drawing out. He swallowed. "Spare my uncle, if you can."

So different from his earlier bid to kill Barleti for his supposed treason. Was Suleiman learning from his mistakes? But the faint hints Ezio had seen before, the vague comments about his father... "Would your _Baba_?" he asked slowly, trying to discern the boy's motive.

The _shehzadem_ looked down for a beat before meeting Ezio's eyes. "No," he said simply.

The grandmaster nodded, understanding.

Departing for parts unknown, Ezio looked to Piri and Dogan and his assassins, sharing a heavy, meaningful look, and as one they all marched into the council chamber. They were an impressive, bloody, hooded swell of strength and unity. A visual testament to their Creed and the high price that came from following it, a display of how far they would go to protect it and those around them.

"Where is she?" Ezio demanded.

Ahmet turned, obviously startled at seeing his enemy at Topkapi instead of Galata. Ezio's eyes narrowed, the eagle in his mind watching the target roll with the change, instead simply smiling. Four Byzantines dressed as soldiers flanked him. "I admire you, Ezio. But your bloodlust makes it hard to call you a friend."

"Bloodlust?" the grandmaster countered. "A strange insult from the man who allied himself with the Byzantines and financed them. Who sought to create an underground black market at Kapalicharshi, who hired more Byzantine Templars to kill his political opponents, who bought off heralds to spread Byzantine propaganda, who sought to raise a Byzantine army to secure the throne, who disguised such an army as Janissaries to overrun those stationed here."

"I see you've done your research."

"But it is a strange insult indeed from the man who ordered an attack on his own _yeğen_."

The prince scoffed, unruffled by Ezio's thorough listing of his treasonous activities and unruffled by the baker's dozen assassins assembled. The man only saw Ezio, and in Ezio he only saw victory. "He was to be kidnapped, Ezio," he corrected, "not killed."

"I see," Ezio said, eyes narrow, wondering if other Byzantines had infiltrated the palace; were there more than those four? "Kidnapped by the Byzantines, so that his _amca_ could rescue him and be heralded a hero?"

He shrugged. "More or less. Now... the keys."

Ezio stalled for time, ordering his assassins to spread out with a twitch of his fingers and he spread his feet and crossed his arms, glancing up at the Golden Window and seeing men beyond. His eagle could not identify them as foe, but they were not friend, either, meaning Suleiman was elsewhere. Where? Still, witnesses were valuable, and Ezio played for a little more time, hoping to turn those shadows blue. "Tarik Barleti was right," he said. "You would make a poor _sultan_."

Of all the things he could have possibly said, that, it seemed, struck the best nerve, because Ahmet went red in the face, and his calm facade cracked visibly. "I _will_ be _sultan_ ," he growled. "And no one, not you, not that ass Selim, not that shriveled old man we call a _Sultan_ can stop it. Once I reach the Grand Temple I will _destroy_ all the things that divide us: petty religion, base debauchery, regional dialects, all of it. With them gone, there will be peace for all, and there will be no need for those Allah-damned Janissaries. _Amca_ Cem will not have died in vain; the Borgia may have abandoned him when they coaxed the location of the Apple out of him, but _I_ will not abandon kin with such disregard, and the prosperity I will bring will—"

"Ezio!"

" _Usta_!"

All eyes snapped to the main entrance of the council chamber. Sofia was there, alive and safe. _Alive_ and _safe_! _Grazie a dio_! Ahmet's one bargaining chip was at last removed from the board because Sofia was _alive and safe_! Only the disguised Byzantine guards and their potential threat kept Ezio from running to meet her, hugging her, kissing her, holding her. She, however, was not nearly so restrained as she lifted the hem of her garb (and what on _earth_ was she _wearing_?) and dashed to him, not even giving a second glance to the blood-spattered assassins or the Janissary-clothed Byzantines. Azize, also alive and safe, trailed after her, also strangely clothed, and took a dagger offered to her and taking position by Sila.

"Ezio, what on earth is going on? Where are we? Is your friend Yusuf alright? The women wouldn't say much, and—"

The grandmaster's eyes slowly drew away from Sofia ( _alive!_ ) to realize the serendipity that had brought her and Azize was the result of Suleiman, who quietly walked in and stood by Ezio.

" _Amca,_ " he said carefully. "This has gone on long enough."

Ahmet, for his part, was completely poleaxed. He stared at his nephew, disbelieving. The person at the Golden Window shifted, still neither friend nor foe, and disappeared. Who had been watching? Ahmet finally believed what he saw, however, and his face fell into deep, deep disappointment.

"I am surprised, _Yeğen_ ," he said. "I thought you a scholar, not a killer."

"What I am, _Amca_ , is _shehzadem_ ," Suleiman replied. "And it is my duty to see the _kanun_ is followed by everyone. No exceptions, even if it means revealing treason in my own family. The _Sultan_ will deal with you." He turned to Ezio. " _Chok teshekkür ederim_ ," he said softly, politely.

Ahmet shook his head, his tone scolding. "You do not yet know the way of the world, _Yeğen_. But you will learn; and I will teach you." He threw a meaningful glance to the disguised Byzantines behind him and took a deep breath. "Soldiers!" he shouted. "Intruders in the palace! They are trying to kidnap Suleiman again!" The Byzantines drew their swords and spread out to flank the assassins; Ezio and the others clustering together in a defensive formation, Sofia and Suleiman protected inside, but the young prince – unlike that night in August when he was unable to decide how to react – stood straight and perfectly still, eyes locked on Ahmet. His uncle started to back away as the council chamber flooded with Janissaries, and he pointed to the bloody assassins. "They are kidnapping my _yeğen_ , stop them!"

"Ezio...?" Sofia asked, pressed against his back and eying the soldiers. The Florentine himself was uncertain what to do. Thirteen bloody assassins in the middle of Topkapi did not look good, and the only thing keeping them there was Suleiman vouching for them. Nobody had been in the council chamber except for Ahmet, Suleiman, the Byzantines, and the assassins; nobody knew the accusations that had been thrown left and right except for the two men hidden by the Golden Window. Whose word would win out? Ahmet's? Or Suleiman's?

But then a curious thing happened. The Janissaries would not let Ahmet leave. And then,

"Hold!"

The soldiers straightened to attention, save the ones blocking Ahmet's escape, and all turned and bowed to a new man as he entered the council chamber. Several assassins gasped softly, Dogan going pale, and Ezio watched as the man, in a richly made turban and strictly maintained mustache, arrived.

Ahmet, for his part, was wide eyed and absolutely white. "Soldiers!" he shouted. "Selim is not your master! You serve the _Sultan_! You carry out his command alone! Where is he? Where is our Sultan?"

"He stands before you, _kardeshim_. Father made his choice."

Dread silence filled the room, the final blow to Ahmet delivered with four simple words.

Selim's gaze was flinty, unyielding. "You have much to explain to your 'ass' of a brother and his 'Allah-damned' army."

And his defeat was complete.

Selim and his brother, with a contingent of Janissaries, moved out of the council chamber, leaving Ezio, his assassins, Suleiman, and Sofia alone. With them went the tension, and Suleiman let out a hot breath of relief, his strong facade receding for several seconds before he composed himself again. He turned to Ezio and said, "That was my father," he said. Such a simple sentence almost made Ezio chuckle with his own sense of relief. He connected the dots, however, and glanced up to the Golden Window.

"I assume it was he that was listening from up there?" he asked.

" _Evet,_ " Suleiman replied. "He arrived this morning, after my _amca_ left. I was apprising him of what was happening here in the city before the report on the Arsenal reached us. Once we returned, I sought him out and told him to watch from the Golden Window, and you saw me arrange the meeting. When you mentioned the missing ladies, I assumed they were hidden in the harem. They were, and... well, the rest you know."

"I see," Ezio said, smiling. Brilliant. The boy was _brilliant_! To put that all together, and so quickly...!

Ezio did not have a chance to compliment the boy, however, because his father Selim had once again breezed into the council chamber, sans several Janissaries and Ahmet. He walked right up to Ezio, standing almost toe to toe, assessing the older man. Ezio met his gaze calmly, motioning for his assassins to be invisible to notice. The scrutiny lasted for almost a full minute, but at last Selim spoke. "So, you are the _Suikastchi_ , Ezio Auditore? I am Selim, Suleiman's father." He nodded in greeting. "He speaks quite highly of you."

Ezio smiled. "He is a remarkable boy with a magnificent mind." He could see the boy flush at the compliment out of the corner of his eye, but Selim was continuing.

"Were it not for his endorsement, I would have you killed where you stand."

Wait. _What_?

After everything Ezio had done, everything he had gone through, everything he had _lost_ and _sacrificed_ , _that_ was this man's response? _What_?

"Leave the palace," Selim ordered, "and do not return."

Ezio bridled, he took orders from _no one;_ he had lost Yusuf, nearly lost _Sofia_ , and to just callously wipe all that aside and banish him...?! His nostrils flared, anger flooding his blood, and it was work to put it away. Working in the dark to serve the light had its drawbacks, and this was one of them. Della Rovere, the pope who came after Borgia and thought he could put Ezio in his pocket, he acted similarly. Ezio leveled a heated gaze at Suleiman, but the boy's gaze was down, deferential. Very well. So be it. He turned on his boot, Dogan and his assassins easily following suit, and they left.

* * *

All the Assassins returned to the derelict mosque, entering _en masse_ , since it was now nightfall and there were none to see. They all maneuvered through the cistern to the little corner they called home. Ezio held Sofia close the entire way. It was his old method of thinking, his old beliefs that a woman must be protected, but he didn't want her out of his sight at the moment. Sofia seemed to understand and asked no questions.

Mazhar was frazzled and still barking orders when they all arrived and took one look at their blood-spattered appearance and brusquely started ordering them around. Some of the novices and apprentices who hadn't been in the battle were acting as assistants for the tired doctor and swiftly started fetching fresh clothes, bandages and thread.

Everyone insisted that Azize and Sofia were checked on first, which Mazhar had no problem doing given that they had been missing for days. Azize was first released with a clean bill of health and Ezio followed Sofia to Mazhar's office to make sure she was well.

" _Usta_ , you don't belong here," Mazhar tiredly groused.

Ezio didn't reply.

" _Fine_." Mazhar asked Sofia questions before turning to allow her to strip out of her harem garb and turning to check over the areas that had been more roughly handled when she had been kidnapped. Ezio's lips thinned at every bruise and he wished he could have dealt with Ahmet himself, but he pushed that all aside. He had pursued revenge in his youth. He was supposed to be older and wiser now. So it was best to let it go.

It wasn't easy. Not in the slightest. But Ezio let it all go.

Sofia was fine. Bruised, but fine and those bruises were already healing nicely.

" _Teshekkur_ ," Sofia thanked the doctor after she had changed into a spare assassin robe. "Please, look at Ezio," she asked.

"I am fine," he said, cupping a hand to her face.

" _Per favore_ ," she whispered. "I have been confused and worried for days. You tell me that Yusuf is dead. I wish to know that _you_ are well."

Ezio swallowed heavily. He had been avoiding thinking about what it had been like for her, but he couldn't deny her that. Days of being in a harem. Who knew what had happened? Azize had been there at least. "As you wish," he whispered back in Italian.

He had not been injured at all. Ezio had, after all, been an Assassin who had survived for thirty years. He knew how to plan and ensure survival. Once Mazhar released them both, firmly telling them to get lots of sleep, Ezio took them to his small room. Sofia had questions, many of them, and they simply sat in bed long into the morning just reliving events and talking. It was a necessary aspect of healing, one Ezio knew but didn't always practice over the years.

Sofia often interrupted him, asking clarifying questions or needed to expand on background that she didn't have of a situation. Ezio held nothing back, not hiding anything of the Assassins or the Templars, of their philosophical differences or how they manifested in the ongoing hidden war they fought. How he had fought the Borgia for decades and how they ultimately crumbled out of their own greed and arrogance. How he had come to the Ottoman Empire to learn more of the history of their Order and of Altaïr, the greatest leader their Order had ever known. He explained it all.

In turn, Sofia explained her own adventure. How Yusuf was practically a permanent fixture at her shop, always polite and jovial, and teasing her about how she'd snagged the old mentor. He and Azize were completely unobtrusive, and Azize stayed every night. Sofia hadn't questioned their presence, knowing that Ezio had been worried. One week ago had been a quiet evening. The three of them had dinner together when men stormed into her shop and fighting quickly broke out. She had seen fighting before, on some of her trips in caravans that faced brigands, but this had been... different. Yusuf fought like a man possessed, in Sofia's words, cursing Byzantines and Templars, even though she had seen no Byzantine armor. Azize had kept Sofia back. Barricading behind desks or doors, she always stayed between Sofia and any attackers that slipped by.

Sofia had never known that women could fight so well. She had always thought that it was better suited to men.

Ezio bit back a chuckle at that, wondering what Claudia would say.

But in the end, Yusuf hadn't been able to fight off so many. Azize had seen the odds and willingly gave up with the understanding that she would not leave Sofia's side. Sofia enforced this by clinging to the woman and putting on hysterics if they were very separated. They had been surprised to be brought to the palace, and then horrified when they were dropped off in the harem.

Women in the harem were either slaves sold into it, or noble women who considered it an honor. The women were served by eunuchs, who could never harm them in that manner, and mostly the women were left to themselves. They knew how to greet slaves sold into the harem and gently started explaining the duties and how they would remain untouched unless the Sultan favored them.

Azize and Sofia had stayed close, both knowing Ezio would return and that Ezio would find them.

"It was not like I always imagine captivity to be, or how it is in stories," Sofia said tiredly, nestled against his side and leaning her head to his shoulder. "In books its always dungeons or whipping or raping. But we simply couldn't leave. We were fed and well cared for but we just couldn't _leave_."

Ezio held her close, and tried to reassure her.

They fell asleep that way.

It wasn't until the following evening that Sofia and Ezio finally woke up, mostly to the need of food. Ezio still didn't want to let Sofia out of his sight, but he knew that he needed to see how the Assassins were doing. He explained this to Sofia and she gave a soft smile. "I don't know what to do here and going back to my shop..." she shook her head. "I don't think I can yet."

Ezio pulled her into a hug. "I understand."

He and Sofia found Dogan first. The new Mentor was also only just awake, and reported that all the injured were on the mend, with nothing life-threatening or crippling. Most would return to their dens by the end of the week which would make the cistern more livable without so many crowded in.

"The den leaders are already back at their dens setting up," Dogan said, going through his lists. "I still need to promote someone to the den I ran."

"You'll find the right one," Ezio nodded.

" _Usta_ ," Dogan stood, still built like a mountain, and glanced at Sofia. "Some of the journeymen are going to visit _Usta_ Yusuf's grave tomorrow."

Ezio turned to Sofia, the question in his eyes.

Sofia nodded.

The following day, Sofia, Azize, and several journeymen came to pay respects to Yusuf's grave. It was overflowing with flowers and offerings, showing how the city loved Yusuf as much as he had loved the city.

Once back in the cistern, Ezio started getting novices and apprentices to hunt down items for him in the city and soon he had an easel and paints mixed. Unlike previous times he painted, which were always in a private room and isolated, Ezio painted in the main hall, under the sunlight filtering from a grate above. Assassins passed by frequently, and often puzzled, until Yusuf's face started to show: his square jaw, his curly, oily hair, his easy smile. Ezio, who always painted in isolated silence, was often stopped to hear a story or share an anecdote. Sofia stayed by his side, smiling, as Yusuf was painted not just on canvas, but to memory for dozens of Assassins. When it was done, Dogan had the frame placed over the fire of the main hall.

"We need to return to your shop," Ezio said one morning, holding Sofia close.

She shuddered. "I don't want to," she muttered, snuggling in closer. "I know I should. I know it's just a place. But that place was _mine_. It was my father's and I grew up there. It was my dream, my future, my everything. And now..."

"And now it is a violation," Ezio replied softly, running his hand up and down her arm. "My sister," he said, seeming to abruptly change topics, "was once almost raped. A man stuck his _cazzo_ into her mouth and she bit it as hard as she could. I found her as they were tearing her clothes off bit by bit."

Sofia shuddered.

"You may not have been physically violated," Ezio said, kissing her temple, "but you were violated nonetheless. You were attacked in a place of safety and comfort and you can't think of anything but the attack. But Sofia," he fingered her chin, lifting it so she would look at him. "Letting that fear, that invasion, rule you is letting Ahmet and his kind win."

Frowning, Sofia simply nodded. He held her close, and let her set the pace. He would not leave Constantinopoli until she had faced this.

Ezio was with a group of novices, teaching posture and how that effected how visible one was. Sofia was with Azize, as she often was since their kidnapping, and Ezio knew the two women were working on the after-effects of watching Yusuf's death and their capture. Ezio let them, knowing it was important. He supported them both as much as he could. Sofia occasionally would awake with nightmares, her mind recreating the awful events but changing things so that it ended up worse. Ezio had explained it was a normal reaction, but Sofia just wanted it over. Another natural response.

Correcting a stance, Ezio looked up and was surprised to see Sofia striding towards him with a purpose. He left the class to a journeyman and walked over.

"I'm giving the shop to Azize," Sofia said, determined. "We need to go to the shop and get some records."

Ezio nodded.

It was not easy, going to the shop. Sofia, who had been wearing Assassin clothes since she didn't have any of her own handy, needed to get a proper gown and refused to be anything other than her old self. She wanted it to be a "normal" day, not another day of her being away from home and scared, but a "normal" day. Ezio complied.

The morning had Sofia nervous in Ezio's room as she dressed, reviewing what she was doing and offering every reasonable rationale to possibly postpone it. She was facing perhaps the scariest thing she'd ever faced, returning to a place of safety that had proven to not be safe. Ezio couldn't be more proud of her, even as her courage wavered. Finally, as she ran a comb through her abundant curls, Ezio stepped up behind her, wrapped her waist with his arms and kissed the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

" _Mia cara_ ," he said softly. "Whatever you decide to do today, you have proven yourself to be one of the bravest people I have ever had the honor of meeting."

Sofia looked at him, with tears welling up in her eyes. "Ezio, I..." she choked. "I should be over this. It was two weeks ago. I'm fine. You're fine. I-"

"Saw a good friend die defending you and were then taken to a harem," Ezio said. "You were not harmed, and you were not scared by captivity, but it _does_ hurt to have a place of safety so violated. It has happened to me twice. First, in Firenze, watching half my family die accused of treason. I could no longer be safe there. Second in Monteriggioni, where I had rebuilt, only to have it crumble under catapults and cannons. It was difficult to return to Firenze two years later, and it has been worse for Monteriggioni. I have only been back once, and I do not wish to go back again."

Sofia sighed, turning in his arms to hug and press closer to him.

"Let's get this over with," she said.

Dogan had already had Assassins going through Sofia's shop, clearing out the bodies and scrubbing out as much blood as they could. Carpets had been replaced, books re-shelved, and order restored. Sofia was stiff in the shop, hesitant, but in the back room, she found the pertinent documents that she needed. There was a stiff determination about her as she went through her materials, a firm steadiness as she looked through things, replaced things to just-so, and checked to ensure nothing was stolen.

Upstairs she pulled out more gowns to pack and bring back to the Assassin hideout along with many personal items. Ezio was quietly by her side the entire time, should she need him. Perhaps the hardest part was coming back downstairs and finding customers who had been checking by and wondering why she had suddenly closed.

Sofia froze.

And Ezio quietly said that she had needed some personal time after news from Venezia had arrived. Sofia gave a soft smile and picked up the explanation, that she'd gotten word that her father had died and that she was needed back home.

The customers were sad to see her go.

Once they returned to the derelict mosque, Ezio leaned over and kissed her. "Was that as difficult as you thought?"

"In some ways yes, but mostly... no," Sofia smiled at him. "Most of my memories there are happy. I think that helped."

Ezio smiled.

"I think it's time we leave Constantinopoli."

"I think you're right."

Dogan arranged for a ship for them. Suleiman had apparently had one waiting for whenever Ezio was ready, but both Dogan and Ezio thought that as generous as the offer was, Selim clearly didn't tolerate Ezio very much and it was better for him to just disappear. The weather was good and Sofia and Ezio both talked about the discs and the lessons in them. It was on the ship, with the rocking sail and Sofia nestled in his arms, that Ezio finally let go and meditated on that last disc that Palaiologos had.

* * *

_How do you know when enough is enough? Of all the questions I have mused over over the years, this one perhaps I feel the most uncertain of. I have dedicated my life to this Order. When I was very young, I was foolish enough to believe that our Creed would bring an end to all these conflicts, that if only enough people understood the intricacies of nothing being true and everything being permitted, that peace could at last be attained. The world is an illusion to be transcended, and in my idealism I thought everyone could transcend the illusion. If only I had possessed the humility to say to myself: I have seen enough for one life. I have done my part. Perhaps, if I had, Malik would still be alive. Sef. Maria..._

_I cannot in good conscience say that my life has been good._

_But... I feel that there were some small things that have gone well._

_Maria... would you be proud?_

* * *

The Polo brothers were as Altaïr was as a youth: curious, filled with wanderlust, and wishing to seek adventure. Their accent was grating, however, and Italian was not a language Altaïr could call himself comfortable with. His original set of seven languages had increased broadly over the decades, but the price of that was immediate fluency. He only comfortably spoke those he did with frequency: Turkish, English, Latin, some of the Mongol dialects. Italian... it just hurt to hear. Niccolò and Maffeo were eager, happy converts to the Order – there was something of an assassin in them already – and Altaïr knew he had made the right choice in inviting them here.

He did not entirely _have_ a choice, of course. The mysteries of the Apple were even now not completely understood, but he did know that these men would somehow do what the artifact needed.

On their last day he gave them the Codex: everything he had ever written over the course of his ninety years. Darim and Tazim already knew it backwards and forwards, they were already ready to take over after his passing, and he trusted in their leadership. But the Order needed a broader influence in Europe, and Italy seemed as good a place as any to start. They were as excited children, novices. He smiled; Malik would chew on them for hours were he still alive.

But time waited for no man, least of all Altaïr. Even with Khan dead, the Mongols were still expanding, and the man's grandson was no less ambitious. Their lands and territories were too great, the number of men they could muster in a fighting force was nearly incalculable, and there was no hope of trying to defend against such a threat even if the keep was at full strength. It was not. Twenty years of idleness had eroded much. Their numbers even after ten years were reduced, and those who had lost a finger did not have the training necessary. Altaïr tired easily, his bones creaked, and he could no longer hold a sword competently. Darim could not reteach them all alone, even with gifted students like Tazim. Altaïr instead spent his time passing on what he had learned: generally to a new senior council, but specifically to Darim and Tazim. Darim would take over after him, but he was in his sixties, aging just as Altaïr was. The two had both agreed that he would stay on long enough to finish training Tazim; the boy was bright and capable and had the spine of his father. He hoped it would be enough.

He had spent his entire life hoping it would be enough.

He sighed, escorting the Polos down the steep slopes of the mountain. Was the trek always this difficult? The younger brother, Maffeo, kept glancing back with the impatience of youth. Ah, to be that age again...

Altaïr was breathless when they reached the gates, tired and uncomfortable in his own body. He sat on a hard wooden bench, wishing selfishly for the cushions of his seat in the keep. He seemed to have gone soft in his dotage. One hand reached into the satchel he had brought with him, hand on the last key and started to meditate. He should have enough time to press what he wanted into the disc while the Polos packed.

" _Abi,_ " Darim said, voice alarmed. "Are those Mongols?"

The Polo brothers startled, eyes casting down the road seeing the telltale clouds of kicked up dust that represented an army. Time was up, it seemed, but Altaïr was not yet ready. He needed another two weeks, as least, to finish abandoning the citadel. Rumors of their library were well known in the land, and it seemed the Khans were determined to claim what was inside. Altaïr would never allow that, but he was not yet ready for them. Sighing, he slowly got to his feet, achy and stooped. The Apple rested in the small of his back, the only safe place for now, and he fed it some very simple instructions.

A pulse of gold light expanded out from the Apple, startling the Polo brothers even further, and stretched out to the army marching down the road.

He looked up to the older brother, Niccolò. "They will not bother you," he said softly. His voice had become papery, thin.

"What... what did you _do_?"

"Do not think of such questions," he said softly, "They will cost you precious sleep. Know only that you will be safe for a time. Hurry but do not run. Also, a favor."

Altaïr pulled out the satchel, holding out the keys, focusing his thoughts on the last and hoping he could impress his me _mory on it e_ ven as he was still talking. "Take th _ese with you and gu_ ard them well. Hide the _m, if you mu_ st. They are artifacts, of a kind, and are imb _ued with a mess_ age."

The Italian looke _d up, wide eyed, curious. "A mess_ age for whom?"

"... I wi _sh I knew."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First: Sorry the update is late. Our da is in ICU and has been for the last two weeks. A quick summary: pneumonia, arterial flutter (the biggest problem, his heart rate is 120-140 AT REST and it won't regulate), internal bleeding via ulcer, mild heart attack. He's being transferred this weekend from this hospital to one at the capitol to do more tests. Will be crazy for a while yet...
> 
> Author's Notes: ... So, to get the obvious out of the way, there are some very blatant changes to the end of Revelations. The high-action wagon chase and punching people while falling off a cliff (and surviving without injury) was too much. For what is meant to be a thoughtful narrative about a man in a midlife crisi, that level of action, even for an assassin, even for Ezio, is out of place when the high note is supposed to be emotional. There was, too, the under-usage of the royal family, specifically Suleiman. Once can't introduce such a great character, have Malik's voice play him, have all those layers of depth, and not watch that boy turn into a man. And for all the background talk of the fight for the sultanate, more justice needed to be done for the rivalry between Selim and Ahmet.
> 
> And that doesn't get into Sofia, who is thrust in danger again for the sake of giving Ezio tension. I'm sorry, but if I'm hanging from a tree and cut down, the first words out of my mouth WOULD NOT BE absolving Ezio of his sins. The sheer break of reality of that moment in the game... we could not in good conscience leave it in. Instead, we deal with the trauma of being kidnapped for a week and stuck in the sultan's harem. It became her story instead of Ezio's, as it should have been. If Sofia is going to be in Ezio's life, if Sofia is going to be a partner in his twilight years, then her role is most certainly not to be a damsel in distress or a trophy to be stolen.
> 
> But even with Sofia, even with Suleiman, this chapter is about Yusuf. Like we said at the beginning, we bent over backwards to build up to exactly this scene. It's perhaps callous to say this out loud, but the goal was to make people cry. It feels a little mean to say that, though, with Altair's memories wandering around the fic to do exactly that. The two facets of our writing that we put the most effort into are the "logistics" that we talked about in Brotherhood, but also emotional content. Scenes like this are powerful, not because of the events unfolding, but because the characters themselves are treated with enough respect as to make these events meaningful. Yusuf in the game did not make us cry, because he did nothing in the game to make us feel sympathetic for him. He was a comedian, there for a one liner while Ezio was angsting and providing a counterpoint to the dark tone of the game. This Yusuf, however, has a whole life that he lived and is a man who will be dearly missed.
> 
> The benefit of literature is the freedom to make something as long or as short as it needs to be. The game - even with a sixty hour run time - had too much going on to narratively pay homage to the ideas that were being thrown around, especially since the story's structure not around the narrative but the game mechanics. Here an author has the time to have softer, quieter moments to properly build up to big reveals and make sturdier steps to a climax. For all the work we go through writing these novelizations, we take great pride when moments like these happen and we can say, "Yes. This is what we wanted it to be."
> 
> Muslim Lesson: Perhaps the obvious lesson for this chapter is how a Muslim funeral is held. All the salient points were done in the actual chapter, however, and there isn't much to add.
> 
> Next chapter: Fratello Mio


	17. The End of an Era

_ " _ _Bill! Good to see you. Listen, we've got a customs officer waiting to talk to everyone._ _ " _

" _I hope you have something for us._ "

" _Absolutely, passports and papers for everyone._ "

" _Ah brilliant, so I'm... I'm what, a neurosurgeon now, am I?_ "

" _You're a medical team from SUNY upstate, just back from Rome with your patient, experimental gene therapy._ "

" _Good work, let's get this over with._ "

" _Wait look, this is crazy!_ "

" _What's wrong?_ "

" _Not sure, but Desmond's brain is lighting up like a string of firecrackers!_ "

Desmond looked up at the partitions in the sky, confused. The clouds and bleak atmosphere were gone, it was completely covered in the First Civilization blocks; they moved and shifted, opening and closing, streaks of white light blooming and disappearing. The dissonant sound of the ocean was gone, the water was splotchy, dithered and glitchy. Bands of light filtered up from the water, the island, the gates. The stability of the island was slowly breaking up, as was the island itself. What the hell? What the _hell_ was happening? "Clay?" he called out. "Clay?"

"Here it comes...!"

And Clay was there, one leg covered in white light, bits of it floating up into the sky along with the island and everything else. What... What...

"What is that?!" Desmond cried out, his footing constantly shifting. "What's going on!"

"This is the end Desmond. Scheduled for deletion! You finally broke it! You broke the loop! Isn't it _great_?"

Clay glitched, left then right, his leg now utterly missing and bits of his other leg starting to follow suit, but that didn't stop the crazy-ass program from running up and throwing his arms around Desmond, squeezing in a tight bear hug that was completely inappropriate given that the _island was being deleted_.

"What are you doing?!" He tried to break free, found that he couldn't. He was going to be deleted! _He was going to be deleted_...!

Clay looked up, manic grin on his face as he lifted up Desmond one, twice, in his fisted hug of elation. "What is a man but the sum of his memories?" he asked, tone jubilant. "We are the stories we live! The tales we tell ourselves! I have lived hundreds of stories, thousands of tales! I have passed them on to you! I will live on forever through you! You have broken the loop; _I_ have broken the loop! It's glorious! Liberating! I'm done now! I can be deleted!"

"Christ!" Desmond shouted, trying to get some kind of leverage to break Clay's grasp on him. "Don't do this! I don't want to die yet!"

And for a brief moment Clay, face half deleted, looked at Desmond like _he_ was the crazy one. "The entire system is being purged; all nonactive files are being erased. I'm _saving_ you, idiot! _Go_! _GO_!"

And with a strength Desmond didn't understand, the half deleted Clay threw him back into the gate, into Ezio's active memories where his psyche could hide while the Animus finally corrected itself, corrected _him_. His eyes lingered on his crazy companion, who had been with him throughout this ordeal, had been through an ordeal himself, and had sacrificed everything – even the program of his very soul, to help him, Desmond Miles. Clay Kaczmarek had dedicated what was left of his life to that end, writing in his own blood to pass the message on to Desmond, had rewritten the Animus code to show Desmond the truth, had programed _himself_ into the Animus to save Desmond, apparently, from this very juncture. He had lost his sanity, his life, his relationship with his father, his mother, his very soul, but in spite of all of that he performed his task, and he performed it with a manic smile.

And, just as Desmond passed through the portal, he saw the lingering light of Clay Kaczmarek open up a text file. An email.

_New Message_

_To: KaczmarekConstruction_

_Subject:_

_Dad,_

_Don't worry about me. I've found my place and purpose. There is another I must help along the same path._

_I want you to know that what happened isn't your fault._

_I will always love you, and someday, I hope that you find what you're looking for._

_Send message_

_Sending message..._

_root access construct "Clay Kaczmarek"_

_Enter password: ************_

_Operation successful_

Desmond could only thank him for his help.

* * *

_I write these lines with a steady hand and light heart. We are in Acre now – Sofia and I – with the five Masyaf keys in our possession, and all the time in the world. Sofia is a seasoned traveler and a fine companion to have so far from home. Tomorrow we will make our way to Masyaf, and once there, into Altaïr's library to fulfill our father's forgotten dream._ _Forgive the shortness of this letter dear sister, for it is late, and we are tired. Perhaps, with luck, the next words you will hear from me will be in person._

 _Con affetto_ ,

_Ezio._

The trip from Acre to Masyaf was very different this time. Before Ezio had traveled alone. Going from Roma had _been_ about being alone. His quest for the wisdom of Altaïr, the greatest Assassin who had ever lived. He had traveled alone because he did not want to involve the Brotherhood in his personal quest. The previous trip had been marked by his solitude, about his contemplation, thinking of his life and its losses, thinking of every defeat of the Templars and how they always snuck back. How the work of an Assassin was never ending. Ezio had sought Altaïr's wisdom, in part, to learn how to live with the never-ending fighting. He had ridden, then walked, then faced an army of Byzantine Templars.

How very different it was this time.

His approach was still for wisdom, but of a different kind. He had seen Altaïr's life. He was not the legend Ezio had derived in his head, but he had still accomplished miraculous victories through hard work and patience. He had rebuilt his life twice, much as Ezio had, had lost half his family, as Ezio had, had needed to rebuild the Order, as Ezio had. No, Altaïr was no longer the legend he had left behind, but Ezio could still see the greatness, the wisdom. With so many parallels in their lives, Ezio wanted that wisdom, the knowledge of how to go on. The last vision of Altaïr had talked of knowing when to stop, yet of knowing no greater glory than fighting their cause. Ezio himself was longing for a simpler time, before he knew of Templars and Assassins. He wanted a quiet life with Sofia, where they could talk about stories, discuss philosophies. Maybe have children. But there was so much work left unfinished, how could he leave it behind? Ezio no longer sought the wisdom of going on and fighting. He sought the wisdom to endure and sacrifice.

Where before Ezio had traveled alone, now Ezio didn't. He and Sofia had gotten a wagon, keeping their supplies in back as they rode through the mountains, taking paths Ezio had fleetingly seen from his visions of Altaïr. And traveling with someone broke the monotony of travel. Instead of hours of silent contemplation, it was hours of talking and planning. Instead of cold nights at camp, there was laughter and smiling.

Yes, the road to Masyaf was very different indeed.

When they approached the Orontes Valley, Ezio started to take precautions. While Ahmet had been defeated and it was over a year since Ezio had first routed the Byzantines who were trying to break into the library, Ezio didn't know if the Byzantines had retreated yet or not. So he and Sofia used different paths sneaking up the mountain, paths from Ezio's visions of Altaïr.

There were no enemies.

No Byzantines, no bandits.

The village was abandoned, as Altaïr had planned it. Ezio idly wondered where the old mentor had gone after Masyaf. Where did he die? From the last vision, he had been leaving Masyaf to throw off the Mongols. So where to next? A small part of Ezio hoped that Altaïr had gone to Jerusalem, the Holy City he'd fought to defend in two Crusades in two locations. It seemed a fitting place for so honored a mentor, and it was where Altaïr's best friend, Malik, had been _dai_.

They reached the ancient stables of Masyaf and put their cart and horses inside. The small town was deserted and Ezio remembered people from other villages saying that the city was haunted, had been for centuries, and only the brave or idiotic dared visit. When the Byzantines had been digging, everyone had been convinced that ghosts would come down to haunt them all.

Ezio stood at the gate to the city and looked up, marveling. He had been unconscious the first time he'd arrived and when he'd left it had been in the middle of a blizzard. The sight was impressive. The mountains of Italia did not have so imposing a sight, as looking up the rest of the mountain to the towering keep above. One must be able to see for hundreds of miles from one of those ancient towers. All down the valley, for certain.

"Such a climb," Sofia said, staring up herself.

Ezio turned and smiled. "We'd best get started."

Anywhere that had actual buildings, abandoned as they were, were still moderately flat, but the path leading up to the keep zig-zagged up the mountain, the incline steep enough to make many wonder if the trip up the mountain was worth it. With the hard work and decent pace that Ezio set so that they could get to the keep while there was still light didn't leave much room for talking, Sofia simply kept up with him. The warm May sun was countered by the cool mountain air, but Ezio could smell the flowers of the valley, and the water that the Assassins of the time held so dear.

They finally reached the keep and stopped to catch their breath.

"It's beautiful here," Sofia said, delicately sipping some water. "The view is breathtaking."

"I wonder what it is like from the upper areas of the keep," Ezio said, still looking up. "I last took in the view in a blizzard and could not see far."

"No doubt," she offered a smile. "This is where your Order began?"

Ezio shook his head. "It began thousands of years ago," he said with a touch of pride. "But here it was reborn to what we know it as today."

"By the man Altaïr that you hold in such high esteem?"

" _Sì_." Ezio studied the keep, seeing the after-images he had seen before of Altaïr from his life in the castle, and now he could almost identify what memories were for which image. "Altaïr ibn La-Ahad. He built us up, then set us free. He saw the folly of keeping a castle like this. It had become a symbol for arrogance, a beacon for all our enemies."

"Like the Mongols," Sofia said, having heard many of Ezio's stories of Altaïr. "He had already defeated Genghis Khan but they were still a threat."

"And also Crusaders," Ezio added. "He fought in the Third Crusade and the Fourth. Keeping a castle like this ensured that Crusaders and Templars knew where to go hunting for Assassins."

"So he dispersed you into the cities."

"Clever, no?"

Sofia smiled. "And the mandate for menacing hood?" she asked lightly. "Was that his idea as well?"

Ezio chuckled, then leaned over to kiss her in answer.

"You've mentioned your Creed many times," Sofia said, straightening Ezio's hair after she had so thoroughly mussed it.

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted," he intoned with all the seriousness and gravitas as when he explained it to novices or reminded apprentices.

"That is rather cynical," she observed.

Ezio looked at their intertwined fingers. "It would be if it were doctrine," he agreed, "but it is merely an observation of the nature of reality." He kissed her knuckles. "To say that 'nothing is true' is to realize that the foundations of society are fragile, and that we must be shepherds of our own civilization."

"Like Plato's Republic," Sofia smiled, eyes alight in understanding. "He wanted philosopher-kings, who were educated in reason and justice, that could rule not because they were born to, but because of training. The gods of Greece didn't matter to that education."

"True," Ezio replied. "And Plato wanted the classes to depend on ability, not birth, which we Assassins believe as well, but it is more complicated than that. Even Plato's Republic could fall and be brought down, because society can face unrest and shift and change. No form of government will be perfect and it must adapt to the changing needs of its people."

"I think we have a source of debate," Sofia's smile was radiant.

Ezio chuckled. "To say 'everything is permitted," he continued, "is to understand that we are the architects of our actions, and that we must live with their consequences, whether glorious or tragic."

"You don't believe in God, do you?" Sofia said. "Or divine intervention?"

"No," Ezio shook his head. "I have seen too much in my life, and from a young age, to really believe in a god. Even in my youth, it was merely tradition to go to church, there wasn't much meaning for me."

"Well, you _are_ Florentine, after all," Sofia teased.

Ezio replied by tickling her.

After Ezio had determined that he'd won, he stopped laughing enough to continue. "There are things I believe in, like spirits, and ancient gods, people, who have long died out. But I do not see that there is some divine being watching over us. I may be wrong; but no, I don't believe."

"Pity," Sofia said. "I believe my meeting you must have been some sort of divine intervention. Pure chance belittles it too much."

"That will be an interesting discussion for another time," Ezio agreed.

More rested, they both stood and headed up to the keep, entering its cool depths. Ezio kept glancing at the ghost of Altaïr as he studied, or wrote or talked to someone Ezio couldn't see. There was... a heaviness to the stone, to the history that Ezio felt here. He had seen Altaïr's memory of this place when it was alive and full of life, with novices and children screaming as they ran away from instructors, or friends meeting to discuss missions or just taking down scrolls and books for study. The shelves that had once overflowed with knowledge were all empty, barren. Not a single scrap of writing remained.

"Do you regret your decision?" Sofia asked softly as she observed him looking around. "To live as an Assassin for so long?"

"I do not remember making that decision," Ezio replied softly, still looking up at the ghosts, feeling a faint tickle in his mind. "This life, it chose me." He shook his head, turning from the ghosts to look at Sofia, who was his future. "For three decades, I have served the memory of my father and my brothers, and fought for those who have suffered the pain of injustice as I had. I do not regret those years," he said, cupping her face with his hand. "But I wonder if it is time to live for myself and let them go. To let go of all of this."

"Whatever you decide, Ezio," Sofia leaned in and held him, "I will be by your side. If you continue to protect others, I will comfort you when you come home. If you let go, you will not fall far."

Ezio held her tight.

They descended down to the wall that the Byzantines could not break, the miners could not scratch, and the earthquake so far away could not crack. They both carried torches, lighting sconces as they descended until they came to the massive door, carved in constellations, with many different circles for the keys.

"The end of the road," Ezio observed.

"So many holes," Sofia whispered. "How do you know where these five keys go? Or do you need more?"

"The Polos were clear that there were five, and as for where," Ezio chuckled. "Assassins have an affinity for eagles." He climbed up to the eagle constellation, looking at the keys with his eagle vision to place each in the right spot.

"What do you hope to find behind that door?" Sofia asked.

"Knowledge, above all else," Ezio replied. "Altaïr was a profound man and a prolific writer. He built this place as a repository for all his wisdom. He saw many things in his life," and from the Apple, "and learned many secrets, both troubling and strange. Knowledge from an old artifact that would drive lesser men to despair."

"What could he pass on that is so world-altering?" Sofia frowned. "Would he not have shared that with his living son? Darim, you said?"

"Perhaps his son was not ready," Ezio replied. "And it is arrogant to think I am ready, but wisdom... is something I value."

"Does that worry you? That you might not be ready?"

"Sofia," Ezio said with a smile as he placed the last key, "you should know by now. I am not a lesser man."

Her smile was bright in the torchlight. "Ezio..."

There was a heavy clunk of gears, and the wall creaked, dust and dirt falling, before rising up above. Ezio checked his supplies, ropes and candles, expecting another path that only an Assassin could climb as he had faced under Istanbul.

"You had better come out of there alive," Sofia reached out, putting a hand to his chest.

Ezio held her hand and leaned in to kiss her. "I plan to."

Holding his torch high, Ezio descended, lighting torches along his path, wondering if what he'd told Sofia was true and if he was truly ready. He was older and wiser than his youth, but was he wise enough? Much as Ezio had built up a vision of what Altaïr's life had been, he admitted he was building up a vision of what knowledge must be in this library. Could there really be one answer that would satisfy all his questions? How long would he need to stay in this cold abandoned castle studying in order to find what he was seeking? Altaïr, being so prolific a writer, must have hundreds of books. Should Ezio read them here, or would he need to take them with him back to Roma? How would he move the books through a path only Assassins could climb?

But to Ezio's surprise, there was no path. Just a passage to a large chamber. With his torch held high above him, Ezio's eagle eyes could see all the details and he stood there in shock.

Nothing.

… _Nothing_.

More shelves, aligned in a circle that was completely empty. Dust and webs coated the area, and there was a stillness as ancient and heavy as the castle above. Centered amongst the shelves was a circle of chairs, for a council, and the head...

Ezio's eyes welled up as he softly, reverently, stepped forward. He walked over the stone Assassin symbol letting his tears flow down into his beard.

Altaïr...

Altaïr had given his life to the Order. He had put in decade after decade, almost an entire century, to the only life he'd ever known and loved. He'd suffered loss after loss, interspersed joy, and kept giving. Ezio had hoped he'd abandoned Masyaf with his son, maybe gone to live where memories were happier.

But instead, Altaïr had left himself alone and left himself to die in the era he had helped end.

Ezio's own life was on that path. He had put in decade after decade to the only life he had after he'd suffered loss after loss, interspersed with joy and Ezio had kept giving.

He was still thinking of giving.

But he couldn't now.

Here, Altaïr showed one last vision: Of Ezio's own future if he did not have the wisdom and humility to say "I have seen enough for one life." Ezio, whose own life paralleled Altaïr's in far too many ways, would end as Altaïr. Alone in an end of an era.

There were no books. No wisdom. But a message nonetheless that cut straight through Ezio and embedded itself deep within his very bones. Altaïr's final message could not be clearer.

" _Fratello mio_ ," Ezio carefully knelt down, looking at a pair of hidden blades that still glittered as if fresh from the blacksmith, robes dusty and webbed, but still mostly intact and proudly showing the Assassin white even after centuries of darkness, and a skeleton, at rest and grinning in peace. Ezio rubbed at his eyes, seeing all his possibilities so clearly, as he reached out and cleared some dust from the skull as gently and delicately as he could. He knew that the spirit Desmond was attached to him, and Ezio wondered if the spirit of Altaïr still wandered, trying to complete what he could.

" _Requiescat in pace_ ," Ezio said softly, "Altaïr. You have earned your rest. Your order remains strong and prospering. We fight and win, we lose and rebuild. You have done your work well, and we continue with your wisdom, ever forward."

Clutched in Altaïr's bones was one more disc. Ezio stared at it, uncertain if he should disturb Altaïr's rest, but perhaps, aside from the glaring message that Altaïr himself so clearly displayed, there was one more vision, one more lesson, to be had.

* * *

…

_Maria... I'll be with you soon..._

After ten years as _Al Mualim_ , Altaïr had done all he could. He had passed on everything he had learned from the Apple, he had had the armor constructed – though seeing it in life terrified him – he had written down all the plans, all the lessons, all the thoughts he had ever experienced. All he knew had been left behind, sometimes in riddles, sometimes in musings, sometimes in codes so layered only the brightest mind could open it so that only the brightest mind could discern what to do with it. His most important duties, the ones sensitive to the rapid advance of his age, were complete.

Tazim was a brilliant mind and father of two. He had the wit of his father as well as his spine and skill with a sword. In ten years, he would be an excellent _Al Mualim_ , once his words had been softened slightly and he had more experience with the politics of running a brotherhood. Darim held a firm hand to him, but instead of rankling against it he used it to push himself forward.

Darim... most of his life he had been a challenge. As a child he was acutely aware of the shadow his father cast, and struggled to find his place outside of it. It was not until the ten year search for Khan that Darim realized he had never been in his father's shadow. Despite having a spitfire mother and an arrogant father who didn't play politics, Darim had been granted the gift of persuasion. He could convince anyone to do anything, and it saved their lives many times on the trek through hostile territory of the Mongols. Between that and his skills in archery, he had found his place. Their relationship had softened.

Until Maria died.

Even Darim's skill at rhetoric failed to coax his father out of his depression, and he was forced to move on while Altaïr remained stagnant. Even after he returned to Masyaf it had taken Darim time to accept his father was (mostly) healed. Constantly he checked for signs of madness, depression. He had unknowingly taken the job Malik had been granted: the right to kill Altaïr if he showed signs of betraying the Creed. Even now, in his sixties, he studied his father at the gate of the lower library, wondering what his father was planning.

But there was nothing left to plan. Altaïr's work was done, and he had but one duty left.

"Have the last of the books been shipped off?" he asked.

"Yes, _Abi_. Those that did not go to the Polos are now en route to the library at Alexandria. All the assassins are spread out to the bureaus: Alamut, Jerusalem, Alexandria, Acre, Damascus, Cairo. What I do not understand is why. All our information indicates there is or will be a battle of succession in the Mongol empire. In a few years they will split into their clans again."

"It does not matter," Altaïr replied, admiring his son's skepticism, touched that his son cared so much about him. "When the Mongols come here to Masyaf it must appear abandoned, empty of loot. With this perception they will lose interest and move on." He shifted his weight, holding the box in his hand, trying to ease old bones.

Darim's gaze flit to the box, and then his eyes widened as he realized just what his father planned. "You... this is not a library at all, but a hiding place. You mean to keep it here. That's why you sent everyone else away. That's why—" He sucked in a breath, staring at his father, face wide open in shock. "You intend to stay here." It was not a question.

Altaïr nodded, slowly.

And, like his mother, emotion overcame him. "You mean to _die_ here! _Abi_ , you are ninety-two years old! You have grandchildren and great-grandchildren, you have guarded that thing since before I was born. It is enough – you have done _enough_ – enjoy what little time you have left with _us_. Do not give your life to that cursed artifact!"

"If anyone asks," Altaïr said, trying to get comfortable on his feet, "Tell them I hid it away on Cyprus, or Cipango, or that I dropped it into the sea. Tell them anything to keep them away from here, and away from you, my precious family. I am not giving my life to the Apple, rather I am disappearing so none may pry its knowledge from my beloved son. Hate me, if you must, but know I am doing this for you."

"I could never hate you, _Abi_ ," Darim said, his voice thick, watery. "I just don't understand..." he could not finish the sentence.

"Darim," Altaïr said softly, feeling fatigue. "Darim when I was a young man I broke the Creed and had to learn it anew. I vowed to myself that I would never break the Creed again. And yet in spite of my efforts my actions created the tragedy of Abbas. I bear him no hatred, I understand the part I played; but even now I am still learning from the mistake. Abbas tasted of the Apple and went mad in a way that no one noticed for some thirty years. It touched his weaknesses and drew them out in the worst way. The same with my _al mualim_ , the same with Robert de Sable. The day is quickly coming when I will pass, and men who know of the Apple – Templar and _Assassyun_ alike – will seek to taste of it. I cannot – will not – be part of that tragedy, indirectly or otherwise."

"But you don't have to go so far...!"

"But I do," Altaïr said softly. "Maria told me to be strong. And so I will."

And Darim could not argue. His eyes were filled with tears. "I fear there is no man on earth as dedicated as you."

Altaïr smiled softly, his vision blurring. Surely it was the fatigue. "It is not dedication, I fear, but lack of humility."

A small, choked laugh escaped from his son, and Altaïr was soon surrounded by strong, warm arms.

"Everything that is good in me began with you, _Abi_."

Emotion filled Altaïr, and all he could think to do was tighten his embrace. "I have loved you since before you were born," he replied.

Darim's strong arms nearly crushed Altaïr's frail body, but the love his son expressed gave the old mentor no pain, and it lasted an eternity. Love passed between them, love that transcended their past trials and tribulations, past their disagreements and fights. It was warm, light and airy, and it gave Altaïr strength. At last, however, they parted, and Darim's face was streaked with tears. "Go, son," Altaïr said softly. "Go and be with your family. And live well."

Darim bowed low, voice broken with tears. "As you wish, Mualim-ahu," he managed to say.

Altaïr stepped on a specific floor panel, and the massive door that had been engineered for the lower library began to close. Father and son stared into each other's eyes, one nearly overcome with emotion and one utterly stilled by it. At last, however, the door closed and locked, and Altaïr was alone.

He sighed, stooping with his age and slowly shifting his weight on achy feet. He was _bone_ tired, an exhaustion that seemed to creep on him even as his age did. His body was failing him: he could not walk up and down the mountain, he could not lift a sword, he could not handle stairs of even the softest slopes. His eyes constantly burned with exhaustion no matter how much sleep he got – and it seemed he slept constantly. Bones creaked and ached – the winter had been nearly unbearable for the pain his joints suffered, but he had promised Maria to be strong and he had a little work left to do. He barely ate these days, and his mind – still sharp as a tack – knew what was happening.

Still, he had one more duty to perform, and he steeled himself for the task.

Slowly, painfully, he walked down the hall to the lower library, extinguishing the torches as he went, plunging the space into darkness. His eagle, one with his mind for most of his life, encouraged him with quiet calls, wrapping its omnipresent wings tighter to him, giving him even more sight. The library was empty of books and scrolls for the first time in living memory. It looked haunted, ghostly; silent and sober and telling the world there was nothing here. Even if the Mongols found this place, the sheer emptiness would drive them out. He hoped it would be enough.

He was out of breath by the time he reached the hidden panel and opened it. Even such a small journey was taxing to him. Carefully, he pulled out the Apple and placed it on its simple pedestal. Its light was shining, happy to be put to rest. Altaïr stepped back, withered hand hovering over the relief that would close it. He was reflective, absorbing the magnitude of what he was about to do.

Unbidden, memories of times long gone filtered into his mind...

" _What is this treasure?_ "

" _It is temptation._ "

" _It's just a piece of silver._ "

" _Look at it!_ "

" _The Piece of Eden is temptation given form. Merely look at what it's done to Robert. Once he tasted of its power, the thing consumed him. He saw not a dangerous weapon to be destroyed, but a tool, one that would help him realize his life's ambition._ "

" _Al Mualim! Guide us! Command us!_ "

" _I found proof._ "

" _Proof of what?_ "

" _That nothing is true, and everything is permitted!_ "

_"I have applied my heart to know wisdom; and to know madness and folly. I perceive that this also was a chasing of the wind. For in much wisdom, there is much grief. And he who increaseth knowledge, inscreaseth sorrow..."_

" _Whatever this artifact is capable of,_ you _are not worthy to use it!_ "

" _Safety and peace,_ safety and peace, brother _. It's me, the artifact is gone, be at peace!_ "

" _That thing nearly killed you! It is dangerous and cannot be controlled! It will only bring ruination!_ "

" _What promise has it made to you that you are so drawn to it?_ "

" _The Apple... I know you feel its danger, and I do to; but that cannot stop my parallel sense that there is great knowledge stored in there, knowledge that may help us... My fear Malik, my greatest fear, is that I will succumb to the item's influence as Al Mualim did._ "

" _What does it tell you? What do you see?_ "

" _Strange visions and messages. Of ones who came before, of their rise, and their fall..._ "

" _But what happens to_ us _, Altaïr? To our family! What does the Apple say?_ "

" _Get rid of that thing!_ "

" _You have held that artifact for_ thirty _years Altaïr, reveling in its power and hoarding its secrets. It has corrupted you._ "

" _I will have the Apple, Altaïr!_ "

So much strife had come from the Apple over his life. The Third Crusade was born of the Templar desire to have it, causing untold loss of life. It had poisoned Al Mualim and Abbas both, turning them against the very Creed they had purported to follow. But his was only the latest in a long string of tragedies. Legends depicted the Trojan War to have cost thousands of lives. Moses was under constant peril as he used it to bid the escape of the Jews. The Romans had crucified Christ for his possession of it. Did Muhammad, peace be upon him, possess an Apple, too? What other massacres happened while fighting to possess this trinket? What of the other pieces of Eden hidden about the world? How many lives had been lost? How many wars, how many sacrifices? How many more would suffer for it and its "calculations"? Would the prophet, when he arrived, also be so weighed down with this knowledge? Would he, too, have incurred losses over the course of his journey here, or would he just be starting out – to learn the Apple's secrets and pass them on to a new generation?

The artifact's light offered enticement, answers to his questions – but Altaïr knew the trap: that such answers only brought about more questions. It was an endless cycle, it offered an infinite amount of mystery – and that was Altaïr's weakness, his curiosity. The Apple plagued him with it even now, but unlike others Altaïr had the mental wherewithal to resist temptation. He knew submitting to temptation would break the Creed, and it was his most sacred vow.

His final duty was not to study the Apple, it was to hide it.

"... I have seen enough," he said, his voice barely a whisper, and he pushed feebly against the relief, the stone panel closing and locking in place. Without the light of the Apple, the library plunged in absolute darkness. The temporary blindness filled Altaïr with a sense of loss, and he realized how utterly alone he was down there.

So many people were gone. His parents, his mentor, his best friend, his son, his wife, now Darim... He was the last, the frail flumes of an era that had seen and done so much. He felt his hand in the dark, its wrinkles and age spots and soft bones. In this shell he had soared to great heights and fallen into torturous pits. All of his achievements, all of his failures, all of his decisions and emotions and thoughts were meaningless in the face of the inescapable truth: he was going to die.

Before now it had pressed him with a quiet sense of anxiety, the fear that there would not be enough time to do all the things he needed to do to put his affairs in order. His frailty made him push himself, his exhaustion made him adamant in his pleas and decisions. Twice he had nearly succumbed to his age, but still there were so many plans to make, futures to secure. Maria's final words haunted him.

" _Strength, Altaïr..._ "

It was for her that he pushed through, through the agony of winter and the desperate need for sleep.

And now, his last task, his final duty, was complete.

At last he could let himself sit for a moment.

Sit a moment and rest.

He shuffled his way to one of the chairs, every fiber of his body anxious for its comforts. His eagle was quiet. Altaïr touched the arm of the chair, feeling the wood, savoring the padding of the upholstery. His bones stiffened partway down, and he fell the last few inches into the seat and _aaaahhh_...

He did not know how long he sat there, savoring the feeling of sitting down, feeling his feet throb with the relief of pressure, thinking about the Apple's burden and how light his shoulders felt now that he no longer carried it. He very nearly fell asleep, but he remembered the last of the artifacts he had withheld from the Polos. A sixth disc, one which he had toyed with the idea of using this event when he had first found them, toyed with passing on some final wisdom he had not decided on. He considered the possible mediations, the questions he had asked himself over the course of his life. What more could he add?

Nothing came to mind, and his exhaustion made his mind drift... He thought of simpler times: his youth, dim memories of his childhood, the day his father died, the day Abbas' father killed himself, being roommates with Abbas and watching him pine for his father. He remembered seeking to heal that pain, and the consequences born of it. He remembered the first Templar assault on the keep, Al Mualim held hostage and Altaïr's gambit to reclaim the fortress. His arrogance began that day. He remembered Adha, learning the Templars desired her, the desperate search for her, and the bloody mess he had found. He hardened his heart after that, held himself above others to prevent feeling more pain. And then Solomon's Temple, the second assault on Masyaf, learning from his mistakes and reclaiming his honor; he remembered the painful fight with his mentor, Abbas' attempted coup, the hard winter trying to recover from his wounds – physical and psychic – working with Malik. He thought of Cyprus, and the vision of Maria filled his aching body with warmth.

Oh, how he _missed_ her: her round face, her smile, her long tresses of hair. He missed her temper, her strength, her single-minded ambition to make a place for herself in the Order, the miracles she had performed in the gardens, the way she paved for women in the brotherhood. He missed watching her milk Darim and Sef, listening to her lessons with them, debating with her over their future. He missed his sons, playing with them in the training ring, having them climb over him, teaching them how to run, how to hide; the news of Sef's fatherhood, letters from Jerusalem about Darim, his granddaughters. He missed the omnipresent shadow of Malik at his shoulder, scowling or frowning or calling him a novice for his most recent decision.

He missed... he missed his family. The small moments. Lying in bed with his wife, walking the gardens with his sons, planning late into the night with Malik. Floral scents, childhood giggles, riding on horseback, the wind flying through the body during a Leap of Faith, the scent of hay and picking it from his wife's hair. Only one third of his life had been so happy, he treasured those memories, relived them as he slowly, quietly, fell asleep.

He dreamed of his family, whole and alive and as they had not been in years. Sef was poking at Malik with one hand while the other held one of his daughters, his wife holding the other. Malik was sour as always, Kadar at his shoulder, but his eyes were on Altaïr, a gruff, " _You're late, novice_ ," gracing his lips. Sef laughed, shifting the weight of his child and looking to his brother Darim, silent but smiling as he never had as a youth, beckoning Altaïr to join them. And in the middle of the small crowd was Maria, resplendent and in her glory: dressed as a man, her braids knotted throughout her hair and sword at her hip. She smiled, that bright, confident, radiant smile and shouldered her way through Malik and her sons, walking right up to him and gently putting her arms around him.

" _And now your work is done_ ," she whispered, her English accent beautiful. " _Rest. And welcome home._ "

And he was at peace.

* * *

Ezio did not know how long he knelt there, tears streaming down his face as he watched the conclusion of Altaïr's life. He wondered if those final moments, of seeing his departed family, were real. If that was what awaited Ezio. Would he see all of his lost again? Petruccio, Federico, his father Giovanni, his mother Maria, his uncle Mario, Caterina Sforza, Vittoria, the first Assassin he ever trained, all those recruits that he had lost... Would he see Yusuf again? Or was it all the imaginings of a mind near the end?

Ezio would not know. Not like this. He wouldn't know until he died. But he hoped... He hoped he could see them all again.

Rubbing at his tears, and squinting in a vain attempt to prevent more, Ezio gently returned the disc back to Altaïr, placing it as it had been. This was a message for any who came, and it needed to be preserved with the bones that had created it. Wiping his face again and sniffing, Ezio unsheathed his sword, the Sword of Altaïr, that had been by his side for decades and seen him through many a battle. He pulled out a cloth, cleaning the blade one last time, and resheathed it. Gently, with great reverence, he returned the sword of the wisest and most powerful mentor the Order had ever known, laying it gently at Altaïr's feet. Ezio would retire. And so this blade would retire as well.

But something niggled at the back of his mind. Something from the vision of Altaïr's death. He had placed something in here, and Ezio wanted to know what it was. Perhaps this one last investigation.

The disc and Ezio's torch provided enough light for his eagle to help him see in the black cavernous library, and he pressed the hidden stone as Altaïr had and the stone fell away. Sitting on a pedestal, shining brightly with a giggle of joy whispering in Ezio's mind, was a globe with strange markings that Ezio recognized all too well.

_The Prophet!_

The light puls _ed out, see_ ming to make the grout between every s _tone in the li_ brary start to glow in the s _ame golde_ n light.

Another artifact? Ezio reached out, ques _tions filling hi_ s mind. Surely the on _e from Cyprus th_ at he had hidden away und _er il Colosseo was th_ e one that Altaïr had hidden away. The keys of Masyaf were strange, and certainly relate _d to that Piece of Eden, but did t_ hat mean there truly more than one? If there we _re more than o_ ne, then wha _t was the purpose_?

Already, ans _wers were fill_ ing his mind. The App _le was always ea_ ger to answer.

"No," Ezio said firmly. "You will stay _here_. I have seen enough for one life."

_Correct!_

The Apple pu _lsed even bri_ ghter, and E _zio won_ dered. "Desmond?" he called out, turning.

_He's talking to me?_

"I heard your name once before, Desmond, a long time ago," Ezio said, slowly looking around, hoping that just once, he might see the spirit that he carried with him.

_Shit, I'm not in his head again. Another of Those Who Came Before is going to show up, aren't they?_

"And now," Ezio continued, feeling the Apple in his mind, "it lingers in my mind, like an image from an old dream." The Apple had a purpose for this Desmond. And Ezio, who carried the strange spirit, was but the messenger.

_Desmond looked between Altaïr and Ezio, his own emotions swirling._

"I do not know where you are, or by what means you can hear me."

_… Yeah that would take a lot of explaining._

"But I know you are listening." Ezio unbuckled his bracers and removed his hidden blades, also pulling out cloth to clean them one last time. Carefully, he laid them before the pedestal and stepped back.

_He really is going to retire... Desmond thought back on Ezio's long life, and Altaïr's. Having seen it all himself. The two had deserved some peace and happiness. He could only hope Ezio finally achieved it._

"I have lived my life as best I could," Ezio turned around again, "not knowing its purpose. No man can ever know his purpose, though we all strive to figure out what it is, as I have, drawn forward like a moth to a distant moon." Ezio stepped down and looked to Altaïr. This revered man had only one purpose, and he had slaved to it his entire life. Ezio had only one purpose, and now he must fulfill it. "And here," he said softly, "at last, I discover a strange truth. That I am only a conduit for a message that eludes my understanding." The Apple was whispering words again, words he didn't understand.

_I hope... Desmond glanced down. I hope you lead a good life after this._

"Who are we," Ezio smiled, slowly turning, "who have been so blessed to share our stories like this? Altaïr who can even after death give visions of lessons he's learned, and you who see the lessons I learn as I learn them. Who are we to speak across centuries? Maybe you will answer the questions I have asked. Maybe you will be the one to make all this suffering worth something in the end."

 _Desmond stood behind Ezio, wondering if he was crying in his body the way his mind was crying. Why couldn't Ezio have been his father... Ezio was a man of integrity and respect, honor and wisdom. The same was true for Altaïr. And seeing their lives like this, all Desmond wanted was to have been a_ part _of their lives. To have let them know him and what they would mean to him._

Ezio turned, seeing the outline of a man from the Apple's light. He was taller than Ezio, his face a mix of so many countries Ezio had no idea what his ancestry was. The build of an Assassin, lean yet firm, with a scruff of a beard, perhaps a couple weeks old. The Apple had deigned that Ezio could see this strange spirit, and he simply smiled.

 _He can see me? He can_ see _me? What the fuck!_

"Now..." Ezio reached out and placed a hand on Desmond's shoulder. "Listen."

_What the..._

* * *

Desmond blinked. A giant circular portal of golden light was in front of him and all around him, lines of gold formed patterns of a floor that spread light like ripples of water. From the portal came a man, a tall man with a strange helmet that fit the curve of his skull. He was bare-chested, long robes from the waist down cinched by a belt that would make any wrestler drool. He had a cape, held by strange shoulder guards. His right arm was as bare as his chest, but his left was hidden in the cloth hanging for the strange cape.

"Do you hear me, cipher? Can you see me?" the man said.

Desmond balked, even as the Apple whispered that this was Jupiter.

"Ah. There you are. Good."

Desmond was still trying to reconcile where the hell he was and what the hell was going on.

"A strange place, this nexus of time," Jupiter looked around. "I am not used to the... calculations. That has always been Minerva's domain."

The woman under the Vatican...

"I see you still have many questions."

_You think?_

"Who are we? What became of us? What do we desire of you?"

 _Yeah, the answer to that last question_ would _be nice..._

"You will have your answers. Only listen and I will tell you how." Jupiter ran a hand through his snowy beard. Above a hologram of the sun and the earth appeared along with the rest of the solar system. "Both before the end and after, we sought to save the world," Jupiter's voice remained clipped and precise, like a great-grand-parent unfamiliar with cell phones trying to leave a voicemail as clearly as possible because they didn't understand it.

"We built vaults within which to work, each dedicated to a different method of salvation."

Desmond looked around, still awed by this golden presentation of light.

"They were placed underground to avoid the war which raged above, and also as a precaution, should we fail in our efforts."

Vaults. Like under the Vatican and the Colosseum. To use the technology that Desmond and the human civilization didn't have, to save the world. Shit. Just... shit.

"Each's vault's knowledge was transmitted to a single place," Jupiter's right arm appeared from under his robes, pointing to the golden holographic earth, which zoomed in and suddenly Desmond knew _exactly_ where it was, down to the trees that surrounded the area and the mountains it was nestled in.

A statue, outlined in the golden light appeared, before sinking down a column to three, Jupiter, Minerva, and the woman that had made Desmond kill Lucy. Desmond narrowed his eyes.

"It was our duty – mine, Minerva's, and Juno's -"

Juno! So that was the woman who... Desmond's lips thinned, even as he acknowledged that it was his choice.

"- to sort and sample all that was collected." Juno walked between the holograms of his partners. "We chose those solutions which held the most promise, and devoted ourselves to testing their merits." Jupiter approached the golden outline of some sort of door, Juno and Minerva turning to face him. "Six we tried in succession," Jupiter continued in his slow, clear clip, "each more encouraging than the last. But none worked. And then the world ended..."

The door opened, light poured forth...

And suddenly it was like Desmond was there. In some sort of futuristic city with strange statues, people going about their daily lives in odd clothes. Elsewhere, there were front lines, others facing the base filth that was their slaves that were rebelling. But here was paradise. Except high above, the sun _flared_. Flared further than ever before. Its heat and radiation ripped through the atmosphere and everything fell into collapse. Lightning ripped through the sky, shattering glass and buildings, sending debris to crush those below.

"The Earth shook for days."

And shake it did, making buildings crumble like cardboard, glass streets shattered and hundreds of people fell, down, down, down into the molten lava of the earth below.

It was hell on earth.

"The fires burned for weeks."

Desmond stared at the burned out husks of what was once living people.

"And when the ash had settled, less than ten thousand of your kind still lived... and far fewer of ours. But we carried on, together. To rebuild. To renew."

 _How_? How could one move one after... all that?

"Listen. You must go there. To the place where we labored... labored and lost." Jupiter continued. "Take my words. Pass them from your head into your hands. That is how you will open the way."

Juno had spoken of that. Open the way for _what_?

"But be warned: much still remains in flux. And I do not know how things will end – either in my time or yours."

Data flared in Desmond's head, information, knowledge, what...?

* * *

He was in a van. Swaying back and forth, feeling the bumps of potholes.

"Wait, look! His vitals are stabilizing... Look at how fast they're normalizing!"

What...?

"Something's happening..." The voice was of one who had screamed too much in her youth. Rebecca... "He's... He's moving!"

Desmond blinked, trying to focus. He felt like he'd been asleep for hours, and was only just coming aware of himself. He could feel dried tear tracks crusted next to his eyes, and he knew that he had cried.

He had seen a lot to cry about.

"Desmond, can you hear me?"

Turning his head, he looked to his grizzled father, hair grayer than he'd ever remembered, face lined with more wrinkles than he remembered, and a knowing smirk that Desmond remembered all too well. "Son..."

William reached forward and grasped Desmond's shoulder. Behind him Rebecca was running a hand through her gelled hair as she was studying his vitals on the monitor and behind her was Shaun, looking somewhere between flabbergasted and relieved.

 _The cipher is complete_.

The Apple had whispered.

Desmond knew exactly where the Apple was, on a shelf behind him and to the right, and he was aware of it as he never had before. The information Jupiter had downloaded into his brain... Altaïr and Ezio... They could use the Apple. But they never _understood_ the Apple. They didn't have enough of what he had.

He raised his right arm, concentrating, and the blue glow of the vaults, of Those Who Came Before, rippled across his arm. Everything snapped together and he _knew_.

"I know what we need to do," he said quietly, looking to them.

They all glanced at each other, uncertain what to make of Desmond's statement.

But William turned to him and nodded. Turning, he went to open the back of the van and before Desmond could even see, he felt his soul pulse, already familiar with every tree, rock, and especially the cave and the blocking wall of Those Who Came Before used to keep the heathens out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, thus, the story of Ezio and Altair are over, their stories closed for the newer, fancier Eddie we-don't-like-him Kenway and Templar-Haytham and the unknown Arno. Their lives, like history, slowly forgotten and faded, leaving only their memories to be relived by those who choose to study them. It's kind of sad in retrospect that these stories are over. We're knee deep in writing AC3, and dealing with life in general, but rereading these chapters one last time to proof before posting them has given us a certain perspective, and we hope that these stories are revisited in the same way that we revisit the games themselves, that these memories live on in others they way they relive in us. We've learned so much writing about Altair and Ezio - and now Connor - both in craft and psychology and character, and these lessons will follow us for the rest of our writing lives.
> 
> There's not much to say about this chapter specifically, it speaks for itself. Mirror cried - twice - reading about Altair quiet passing and I certainly welled up when Ezio retired. Desmond, who's story this is, fades in comparison of the end of their stories. But that's okay, because AC3 is coming and Desmond can only shine with what happens to him there.
> 
> See you next year!
> 
> Muslim Lesson: And so, after reading notes for sixteen plus chapters learning about Islamic faith, perhaps the most important lesson for people who live in America and have been listening for over a decade to journalists, news outlets, politicians, former presidents, and inflammatory idiots: jihad.
> 
> I cannot tell you the number of media outlets who misunderstood this term – most especially conservative news stations who are deliberately derisive and sensationalist – after September 11; and even now those conservative news stations still do it. Jihad, most literally, means "struggle." In the twenty-three times it is used in the Qu'ran it is used mostly in the phrase al-jihad fi sabil Allah, which translates to "struggling in the way of God." There are two generally accepted forms of jihad, inner spiritual jihad and outer physical jihad. It is believed that everyone is given a jihad over the course of their life that they struggle through to make the world a better place. As an example, like in Christianity, homosexuality is considered a sin and so for a homosexual Muslim their jihad is to not give in to their desires. Jihad, when defined by Muslims, means "duty to god," "achieving one's goals in life," "promoting peace," "assisting others." That vast majority of jihad is the inner personal struggle, it is passive. I repeat. It is non-violent. After almost three hundred pages of this fic we hope to impress on people that this should be obvious. With religious traditions that focus on fasting, charity, prayer, and helping people in need, it is a no brainer.
> 
> What American media has jumped on, however, is not the spiritual jihad, but the physical jihad. Sometimes called "lesser" jihad, it is the "struggle" to defend against enemies of Islam. This militaristic term is the only form of war Muslims are allowed to fight, and is open to debate amongst Islamic scholars on what this means. There is a hadith that states "The best jihad is the one in which your horse is slain and your blood is spilled," meaning you die struggling to make the world safer for Muslims. But the prophet Muhammad himself (peace be upon him), said, "The best jihad is the word of Justice in front of the oppressive sultan." Muhammad's (peace be upon him) jihad is what inspired the Arab Spring. Heck, in the right context the American Revolution would be considered jihad. It is a great shame of American media that it is only ever translated as "holy war." Jihad may be generally accepted as a militaristic term, but it is an embarrassment that its finer nuances are completely left out and left to be misinterpreted.
> 
> Next Week: Love, Liberty and Time


	18. Love Liberty Time

_Sofia, mia cara,_

_When I was a young man, I had liberty, but I did not see it. I had time, but I did not know it. And I had love, but I did not feel it._

_I had the freedom of noble birth, of money, of influence, of connections, of political capital in the form of my father. I was liaised with Lorenzo de' Medici, Il Magnifico, a man who saw the world as assassins did, who knew the value of the people he ruled over. I had a father who understood my struggle as a youth to find my place, a father who had the patience to give me time to find it. I had a mother who showed me that women could be strong, conscientious, a mother who showed me by example what it meant to serve people. I had a brother who taught me how to be friendly and charming, I had a brother who taught me to be patient, understanding, and sympathetic. Few men alive can claim the liberties I had, or the liberties I took – if I am completely honest. My youth was not misspent, but it was most certainly wandering. I have a sister who even now continues to surprise me, who shows me over and over the potential for women are more than society can dictate. I had an uncle who taught me by example, who showed me how to live by my Creed, and who died believing in me. I had mentors all across Italia: men and women, thieves and mercenaries, high and low born, and over and over I learned from them. Sometimes it was painful, sometimes it was slow, sometimes I drove them and myself to complete frustration._

_Many decades would pass before I understood the meaning of love, liberty, and time. And now, the twilight of my life, this understanding has passed into contentment._

_I have spent much of my life dwelling on my losses: the hanging, the siege, the people close to me being ripped away so violently. But now, at last, I understand that I have been dwelling on the wrong things: I have not had losses, but blessings. I was blessed with the parents that I had, the brothers that I had, a family so broad it spread all across Europe and into Asia and Africa. The lives my parents, my brothers, my uncle and mentors have lived, they were blessings for the lessons they taught me. They were blessings for the time we spent together. They were blessings for the connections we shared. They were gifts when I was desperate and needed something, anything, to drive me forward._

_And, now, I have you._

_The last dozen years of my life have been my most fulfilling. The wisdom I had been looking for so desperately when I found you has at last revealed itself to me, and every day I learn some new facet of this wisdom. Nothing is true, and everything is permitted – and this includes expectations. The truth of people close to me dying has been disproven, and my belief that I would never be truly happy has been lifted. I am permitted to have fulfillment in my life. I am permitted to have the liberty to grow old. I am permitted to take the time to be with you. And most important of all, I am permitted to love and be loved by a woman like you._

_Love, liberty, and time: once so disposable, are the fuels that drive me forward. And love, most especially, mia cara, bring joy to my life. For you, our children, our brothers and sisters. And for the vast and wonderful world that gave us life, and keeps us guessing._

_I do not know what the future holds, mia cara, but I look forward to it because you are in it._

_Endless affection, mia Sofia._

_Forever yours,_

_Ezio Auditore_

* * *

His heart was bothering him again. The pains in his chest and arm were getting stronger after that _terrible_ decision to help Shao Jun with her enemies. What was he thinking? He was no spring chicken anymore, and he didn't have the luxury to run off willy nilly and save citizens or brothers at his age.

Ah, but the Creed wouldn't let him, and such whining only came from complacency. He coughed again, trying to relieve the pressure in his chest, to let the tightness fade and the beat even out. Sofia saw him struggling, bless her, and guided him to a bench. Time off his feet helped, and he watched his beloved wife and daughter begin to browse the open market. They were so _beautiful_ , even the rude brute of a man sitting next to him could not sour his attitude.

Sofia, Flavia, Marcello off on the far side of the square, running as always.

And... was it a trick of the light?

He squinted slightly, asking his eagle for help, but it was quiet in his mind.

A man stood next to Sofia, in whites and grays, turning to see a face Ezio had not seen since he was a boy. Father...?

And with him was Mother, young and beautiful, firmly attached to his arm and smiling like she so rarely had after the hanging. And on Sofia's other side was Federico, wry grin on his lips and a sidelong glance at his wife.

" _You have good taste, brother,_ " he said.

Petruccio sat next to him, legs swinging over the edge of the bench. " _We haven't played chess in a really long time,_ " he said. " _Last time your head wasn't in the game. Are you ready now?_ "

Mario was there, too, standing in front of Ezio and looking down with his half blind gaze. And he smiled broadly. " _Go ahead, Nipote_ ," he said, " _It's time you played._ "

"But... Sofia..."

" _Will be looked after,_ " his father said, coming up to stand over him as well, Maria at his side and Federico sitting on his other side.

Ezio looked out across the market again, eyes lingering on Sofia. Yes, he thought, a few hours wouldn't hurt at all.

He closed his eyes, surrounded by his most precious people.

And he smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... what more is there to say? Goodbye, Ezio. Enjoy your game.


End file.
